


Bold

by acina_m



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Dark Magic, F/M, Fate, Gen, Hurt, Loss, Love, No Time Turners, Not much love, Pain, This is fate's playground, destiny shite, happiness, idek anymore, manipulation of many forms, mature scenes, not much happiness, so you have been warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-05-21 00:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14905241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acina_m/pseuds/acina_m
Summary: She’s far, farther than they’ve ever been before.And they can’t reach her—they can’t, because she’s simply not there anymore.She’s gone.Or a story in which Hermione Granger never chose to leave in the first place.(Tomione/M for mature scenes and language)





	1. Gone

**Author's Note:**

> In the future chapters that you all might encounter ahead, I might be a bit bad at interpreting characters, especially Hermione Granger's because she is very much a righteous figure, and most of my writings all transcend my thoughts of always being neutral. So staying as the Light!Hermione may be a bit hard, but I encourage many to help and give me advice or their inputs on the work, and especially on my take of Tom Riddle because I am simply worse at trying to interpret him. But I also encourage you guys to give me your opinion of him, and hopefully, advice too.
> 
> Anyway, now that that was said and done, here's the Disclaimer:
> 
> I do not own Harry Potter, but J.K. Rowling does, and I am making no profit with this work of fan fiction, for all I do is play with her characters and the plot bunnies that urge me with their insistence. 
> 
> And I self-betad this story, so I'm sorry if there are any grammatical errors whatsoever.
> 
> Now on with the story.

**Chapter One**

            The first thing she saw was the woodlands, drenched in the darkness that sings of the existence of everything stealthy and should not be tested. It pulls at her worries and forces out her worst fears to manifest within the confines of her mind— _singing and chanting in the old song of forgotten time._ How things have truly changed for a child like her, whose soul had been forced to grow up from the cage of innocence it had been once growing out of.

In the woodlands, she does not find solace, but she finds tragedies woven into the bark of each tree that stands before her like a shield, singing of flora and fauna that had been threatened with the existence of darkness. The ancient magic it possesses lingers off of their being and caresses her own, as if soothing her before an untimely fate.

 _And perhaps_ this _fate was_ certainly _untimely, and perhaps they were_ indeed _singing their goodbyes._

Her stiff legs began to move, and every moment felt faster, _harder_ to maintain as she contemplated her existence within this war, and everything she had given up, just for the sake of their freedom and peace. She was a witch named Hermione Granger, with magic running through her veins that contained a massive facet of great potential. She was a young girl who strove hard for success, and even harder for friendship. She was a girl turned into a woman in the face of an impending war, with her as one of warriors at the front. She was the most brightest witch of her age.

And with each step, she thought, _an age that would soon end._

Then, the next thing she knew, in the murky shadows of the darkness of the Forbidden Forest that let in faint light like the murals of shadow and light painted beneath the surface of the Black Lake, whispers and jeers were resounding, and she was reminded of her purpose. Her heart beat like the chugging of the fastest train in London, and adrenaline began pumping through her, forcing her steps to cover meters faster than before, and she can’t _think_ , can’t _hesitate_ , as she hears death pounding along beside her, fast approaching in its ascent to Harry Potter, her best friend, her partner in crime, her _brother_ —and Hermione Granger is a _human girl_ , and at acknowledging this, _Death_ is a being tied to our fates, and we cannot outrun him, for he is simply _there_ , already waiting for us.

And when Hermione Granger finally stops, with her legs throbbing, her mind reeling, and with her heart waiting to burst from the cage that lines the formation of her chest that houses her heart, she silences herself, and hears the jeers that echo through nature, and that of which sings devastation to her ears, and bring dread and destruction to her existence. Her psyche.

And she feels herself just _losing_ hope—her whole being _snapping_ in half at just realising how much she had just lost. _Now, she loses her mind._

Harry Potter—the Chosen One—the Boy-Who-Lived—the Boy who _wanted_ to live, but was resigned to fate, now lay dead by forest floor, another warrior taken by the merciless war and the unbiased death, and Hermione doesn’t _feel_ anything, _cannot comprehend_ the loss that falls over her head, a loss that looks peaceful on the face of her best friend on the floor, who had been once riddled with stress, anxiety, worry, and sadness. He’s so _peaceful_ now, so quiet, and _why_ — _why_ does she hope him to be alive to suffer the same fate as her friends all over again? Why does she want him to wake up to this world that had wronged him so much, deprived him of what he needed? Why does she want this boy who had gained so much scars over the years back into the place that had only granted him so much suffering?

And the answer is simple for Hermione Granger to the Boy-Who-Lived, and now, had eventually died.

It was because Hermione _needed_ him.

He was the rope that tethered her place down onto this earth, and she couldn’t bear the thought of the only person who had willed her so much to fight for this cause—to just _go_ with no goodbye. Harry had so much to live for—so much to _lose_. And it was unfair—simply _unfair_ —to be taken so quick from the world as if everything he had fought and lived for only mattered to life and death as mere dust beneath their feet.

The forest floor now felt heavy with the acknowledgement of the death. The spot where Harry Potter lay dead now felt like a monumental ground Hermione wanted to be drawn to—but at the fear of her own death—she _hadn’t_ , but she still wanted to. And it pains her to simply watch her best friend on the dirty forest, in his old clothes that hadn’t been washed for so long, with his glasses askew on his now pallid face, and his entire body in an awkward position that was even unbecoming of him. Hermione knew it was wrong—because this was not a way to _die_. This was _murder_ —and it _shouldn’t_ have been. Lives didn’t have to die, but alas they did, and it tore through Hermione like a hurricane to realise that they had _lost_ their chance of survival along with Harry.

Within her, her magic trembled and chaos stewed within her weak body, and she hadn’t known when she had started crying, but she just knew she did, when she clamped a hand shut over her mouth, and she squeezed her hand and bit into her flesh to snuff the cries out. Her vision was blurry from the tears that obfuscated her sight, and slowly, she lost herself. To the forest, to the magic, to the loss.

So many lives had been lost.

So much had been taken away from her.

So much had been sacrificed for the greater good.

Hermione could not accept this, deep down, even though she knew her side was now a lost cause to a man who had finally conquered death—to a man who had _surrounded himself_ with death. Utterly genius yet naive really, to escape death by creating it yourself and hiding yourself within it. Being _death_ itself, though it was _not_ his job, and simply surrounding himself within a burning world that just proved his insanity. _Hurting children—hunting them—threatening to kill them all._

What did Voldemort find so hard to understand about life?

That life isn’t simply about just living to escape death?

To Hermione, life was made to love death. To learn about life, and eventually accept their ending fate, and accept it with open arms once they were contented with the truth and the fulfilment of their existence. Life was made to move on with life—to come to love what you cannot—to experience mortality and bask within it—to find things worthwhile—and there; those _feelings_ and _emotions_ you feel everyday are the immortal aspects of life that live through within everyone—even those who _refuse_ to feel it nor acknowledge its existence.

Many things in life could be made immortal—and glory could also be found in many ways.

But building your foundation of immortality through death?— _that was naive. Simple-minded._

Why build yourself on something so fallible?

Kindness may be deemed a weakness. As well as friendliness. Helpfulness. Everything good in the world may be deemed a weakness—or a nuisance, _it didn’t matter._ But if you built yourself on lies, and deceit, and scorn, and hatred, and everything twisted in the world, you’d fall faster the same way you’d built yourself up, and people won’t take the side of the openly evil minded when the world, in the first place, was built with unity and foundation.

But Hermione had also kicked herself at the notion when she knew that the entire world was also built with mistrust and deceit, and greed. That Harry had lived only to die through the manipulations of a man who could’ve fought for their cause himself. That Harry could’ve lived peacefully if only the right people were trusted, and if only the antagonist of their story had been granted a sliver of a chance to glimpse at what love was—if he had been only _loved_ at all, he would’ve made different decisions. Dumbledore had been biased, their hearts had been weak, their cause was consisted of children, Voldemort was misguided, and his own side prejudiced, their Ministry cowardly, and their whole world, _ignorant_.

She wanted to change everything and rebuild it back to its former state—before _everything had ever even happened._ She wished that she had the strength to call upon greater power to change the world—for her friends and family—just to change their lives for the better, for this bloodshed was useless. _Unreasonable._

Now, what was only left now was _burning_.

“ _But it shall not be_.”

A voice had spoken, and all thoughts of hopelessness, of disappointment, of deceit, of loneliness, and everything wicked had escaped Hermione’s head in a fast exit, and she found herself turning around, stumbling, falling, gasping, crying— _she does not see, but she hears._ Her fingers that wish to grasp hope only finds air, but she _breathes_ it in—and it is rich in magical aura, blemished by the darkness that resided, but it was _hope_ , nonetheless, and it was sweet, and it felt _victorious_ , and it rushed through her skin like sea breeze blowing her southward, and tempting her to dive in to the ocean of possibilities.

“Wh-what?” Is her weak mumble in reply to the voice of hope, though, and in return, she hears smooth chuckles that boom in her head like the sound of trumpets, and the clashes of glorious lighting in the symphony of the weeping heavens, and it is solace to her quivering core, and a bout of strength that beckons her bravery, brazenness, and her strength to grow in legions.

“ _You have a chance, mortal. A chance to go back and change your fate. A chance to live and redirect this unprecedented and immoral present into the path it should’ve taken._ ” The voice tells her, and though the presence is invisible, it is unmistakably there, talking through the woodlands and the small sliver of light that passes through the thick branches of the gigantic trees.

“But—that’s going against the principle of time! I would be changing _everything_ —this world may not exist when I meddle with time!” Is her soft, but exclaimed reply to the invisible voice, and for a moment, Hermione doubts if she hears this voice at all, assumes if she had finally lost her mind, along with Harry and many others who had fought for what they thought was right.

“ _Who has said that I am allowing you to change the world? I am merely giving you a chance to change_ your _fate, for this world is much forsaken by your perpetrators, and it has forsaken your own. Now, go forth._ ”

Was the final reply from the powerful voice, and then a silence that was thickened by the woodlands followed, slipping a cold feeling into Hermione as she landed back in reality. And then, she was reminded once again by the Death Eaters in the clearing just behind her, along with _Voldemort_ , and his dark magic that circled the air, and it brought chills to Hermione.

But then, as she turned around to peer back into the clearing— _not to look at Harry’s fallen figure_ —she sees something else. It was red—and Hermione was reminded at first of blood, ruby embers that slipped out of cut flesh, and such a divine crimson that trailed down on creamy parchment that she had cut herself on before. She was reminded of flickering red, traffic lights, _stop_ — _don’t walk_ , the kind of red that belonged to jewellery, and roses, or the emotion of anger— _seething wrath._ It was the kind of alarming volcanic red, the viscous lava of a strato volcano, slipping from the crater of its form. The red that came from a bitten pair of lips—a malformed red of crimson acrylic mixed together with vermilion, painted on a blank slate of a canvas.

This red made her heart stop for a moment, and she assumed that they must've heard her spiel of insanity about time.

“It seems you’ve followed your dear _Chosen One_ here, mudblood,” Voldemort hissed in that high pitched, sibilant voice of his, syllables emphasised, letting the words trickle fear over her form. That slit on his face supposedly called a mouth twisted into a cruel smirk when he saw the apparent fear of the girl, practically written all over her face. Of course, Hermione didn’t even look very strong at the moment, her hair pulled into a messy braid, her face painted with dust, dirt, and smears of blood planted on her lips and her forehead, across her cheeks and her nose. She had such a small form, from months of running, and hunger, and devastation, brought on as well by her emotional suffering and her trauma. She looked war-stricken— _which she was_ —and the wand that was in her pocket couldn't even be reached without Voldemort catching of the action.

But it was as Harry once said. _Voldemort loved to talk—put on a show before he’d kill._

Dark figures stood behind Voldemort, and just a bit overhead, Hermione saw Hagrid, and she swallowed down the cold lump in her throat, and she used every amount of power she had to stop herself from falling and crying in front of the Dark Lord just by looking at Harry’s peaceful, white face. The temperamental, powerful, sentimental, yet naive boy looked relieved of everything once again. Hermione couldn't help but let her eyes brim slightly with tears— _but they didn’t fall, no_ —at the sight of his strewn glasses, lower than normal, down on the bridge of his nose. If Harry was alive, he’d have used his forefinger and middle finger to push them up, and he’d be blinking away the disappearing blurriness. But he was not moving, and even _breathing_ was out of the question. His jet black hair was lined with twigs and leaves, and it was a mess really, but when had it not been?

And for some very strange, and utterly _insane_ reason, a bout of clarity came: Hermione knew that all of _this_ had to be done. That _this—this sacrifice was necessary._ Harry was the lamb Dumbledore had raised, and fattened up for slaughter. Had always told him that Voldemort was his ultimate adversary, and that lives depended on him. But with this bout of clarity came the viciousness which was _anger_. _Betrayal. Deceit._

 _Had Dumbledore let Harry believe that he was utterly alone and had no other way to save others, except to die, because Harry_ too _was a horcrux, that Dumbledore had known, would die in the hands of Voldemort alone?_

_Why would such a strong man let children fight the war for him, if he had known?_

Hermione came back to reality, and she found herself feeling even more defeated than before—acknowledging now that it was useless to even feel anything towards their fallen Headmaster—the master of deceit and misguidance. Her limbs now lost the will to move, and her eyes were on Voldemort, afraid if he were to move close to her, her legs ready to step back any moment.

Voldemort caught sight of Hermione’s gaze at Harry’s fallen figure, and he laughed—bellowed deep and low, and the resounding darkness around them came once more with vengeance. Hagrid was silently shaking with his tears, and Hermione felt her stomach coil with fear. Voldemort stroked the elder wand within his grasp, and Hermione followed the motion with her eyes silently, his long pianist hands now gnarled, ugly fingers playing with unbidden power that poured from his figure.

“Well, it seems that your _Chosen One_ has finally failed you, girl,” Voldemort hissed, eyes dancing with triumph the colour of blood. “He had come running here—to only accept his fate and _die._ He has left all of you to suffer, alone— _afraid and helpless._ Harry Potter lives _no more_.” Voldemort finally pointed his wand, position pointed to Hermione’s chest, over her heart.

“You have an option, _mudblood_.” Her scar itched at the name. “You either bow down to me, so your petty life might be spared, _or_ , you die here now with your display of your pathetic Gryffindor _courage_ and _naivety._ You decide your fate here and now.”

_Her fate._

“ _Your chance to change everything now, witch_ ,” the voice that had the strength to move mountains echoed one last time in Hermione’s head, and it filled Hermione with surmounting courage that brimmed over her being, erasing the fear within her eyes. The trembling reluctance in her fingers ceased, and her heart was rooted. _Even if that voice in her head might not be real, she still knew what she wanted to choose. She didn’t want to become_ anything _to Voldemort. Besides, Voldemort had said he ’_ might _’ spare her life if she were to yield, and Hermione Granger had no doubt he would have killed her eventually in the future. Hermione Granger did not play with probabilities._

Her answer was the stark clarity and peace that befell all the once living, and Hermione did not hesitate to look at darkness in the eyes and jut her chin out in the ultimate act of defiance that spoke volumes for such a small obstacle in Voldemort’s path. _But she wasn’t small—_ not at all— _for she was the key player at the hands of everyone’s fate. The brightest Witch of her age. Without her, Harry Potter would’ve long died, along with Ron Weasley, and everyone else._

“I’d rather die than be under the likes of you,” the brazen witch grounded out, and Voldemort looked down upon her figure with contempt and disappointment, such _mocking_ in his gaze, that it disgusted her to no end that he never would truly have _depth_ in that gaze of his. His stare of the world will always be covered and vacant, for he’d be blind to the beauties of each soul, and to the small triumphs of each person. He’d never know true happiness, for he’d be destroying the hope and life of what once made the world _worthwhile_ to live in. His vacant stare, nor his serpentine features, nor his cruel smirking mouth would never know the true meaning of what it was to live. He’d never know love. _He never has, and never will_.

And for that, Hermione takes pity upon him, and the world who had to suffer his wrath.

“Such a pity,” Voldemort tutted, and Hermione nearly hysterically laughed in a bout of insanity from her inner musings. “You had such great potential within you, mudblood.”

Hermione smiled at him mockingly, _boldly,_ accepting her fate that _she_ _will die_ , but she’d be more inclined to at least give back her last words to the Dark Lord, and give him the sense of mind that her schoolmates have seen, a more personal sense of insight that rooted from her sense of righteousness and moral integrity.

“And you had such great potential in you too, but all you’ve done is throw everything away for _this_.” As expected, Hermione saw his features morph and twist with fury just at the sheer _truth_ and _brazenness_ of her words, but Hermione suspected that he was too blinded by his power to even acknowledge the truth, therefore, he must’ve just heard the latter, and sooner than later, his wand was finally glowing with a green light; a bright, sickly shade of emerald green that lit the whole forest ghostly.

“ _Avada Kedavra_.” The Killing Curse met Hermione and engulfed her, and she expected to be gone and meet the ground as her last thought, before darkness came to soothe her worries. But instead of meeting the ground, she felt herself being swept up _from_ the ground, and a warm feeling engulfed her. She felt the air act like warm silk sheets, carrying her in the wind, swaying and bobbing up and down, like she was stranded in a warm sea of light and clouds, and never ending bright light.

She opened her eyes to find flashes of colour, and suddenly, she was _twisting and jerking_ painfully, as if her whole being was being folded and thrown around, until her insides felt mashed together, and she saw all of her memories, from the very beginning to the end, and fear coiled in her stomach, and the war _seared_ itself into her head, and she felt the first tell-tale signs of guilt for leaving Ron, and Ginny, and Luna, and Neville, and everyone else back on earth to continue suffering.

And that warm sea that bobbed her figure up and down had been sinking into a spiral— _a whirlpool of darkness_ —and it brought her further down, and down, and _down._ And she remembers that history is not a circle, but a spiral following a cycle of events, not incredibly the same but continuous nonetheless, and she cries out, and just _wails—_ because she does _not_ know what is happening, and she feels herself slipping and falling, and she loses her thoughts and hits her heads—stars _burst_ in her eyes at her left temple, and she loses her breathing—and _this. This was what she expected of dying, but right now, she felt the complete opposite._

Before she could even contemplate on her situation, she felt her consciousness slip from her grasp, and she no longer has her friends with her to wake her up and soothe her, and to protect her as she protects them. To give her warm embraces, nor kisses on her cheek. To card their fingers through her curly hair, or to read books with her to find information, nor are they there to hear her cry. For they had not left her— _but she had left them._

She’s far, farther than they’ve _ever_ been before

And they can’t reach her— _they can’t_ , because she’s simply not there anymore.

She’s gone.

 


	2. Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione Granger wakes up, tired, confused, and in pain. Then slowly, memories and thoughts begin to trickle through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I am in no way earning profit from this work. J.K. Rowling is the creator of Harry Potter, and I was simply swept away by the plot bunnies to have fun with her work. 
> 
> And to reiterate, I simply am still terrible at character portrayal, so I am completely unsure with future chapters if I will be spot on with Hermione Granger's portrayal, as well as many other characters, such as Tom Riddle, etc... But I hope you love this chapter as is.
> 
> And by the way, this work is completely self-betad, as I have no one to check my work for me. So full material might not be completely grammatically correct.
> 
> But anyways, have fun!

**Chapter Two**

**“** _Dark and amusing he is, this handsome gallant,_  
Of chamois-polished charm,  
Athlete and dancer of uncommon talent—  
Is there cause for alarm  
In his smooth demeanor, the proud tilt of his chin,  
This **cavaliere servente** , this Harlequin?  
  
Gentle and kindly this other, ardent but shy,  
With an intelligence  
Who would not glory to be guided by—  
And would it not make sense  
To trust in someone so devoted, so  
Worshipful as this tender, pale Pierrot? 

_Since both of them delight, if I must choose,_  
I win a matchless mate,  
But by that very winning choice I lose—  
I pause, I hesitate,  
“Putting decision off,” says Columbine,  
“And while I hesitate, they are both mine. **”**

**_  
—Dilemma,_ ** _by **Anthony Hecht**_

It felt like _fire_ beneath her eyelids, her inner being—the bones of her body, the systems, and the veins—they _burn_ with an persistence that perseveres her thoughts and disrupts the peacefulness of that momentary eternity that rests within her. First comes the burning of the back of her eyes, the itchiness of not waking up for _so long_. It pounds like a gong next to her ear, at her left temple. Hermione Granger does not move yet, but she sounds her protest in a small whimper.

Next comes the warmth of her limbs, as if she was feeling the heat of the sun as she steps out of the sea of cold peace that are actually shackles to her being. Her limbs thrum with unuse, and it is painful to breathe, like several bones in her body must’ve been misplaced. It does not placate the peace, and slowly, Hermione has her thoughts trickle to.

 Scratchy fabric is beneath her fingers, crumpled like smooth parchment, and her body feels heavy, and it _hurts_ not to move. Everything aches, as if she had gone through a long marathon, and it is not long until she starts moving to ease the ache. Then, her stomach begins churning, and the first tell tale signs of bile start encroaching upon her tongue, and she bolts right up— _and fire_ —brilliant splashes of red and orange flash through her mind as her ribs burst with pain, and her head begins to ache from the rapid motion.

Her limbs are numb, and she opens her eyes to search for _something_ to sick into, but she does not have to search anymore, for her vomit chooses to come out _now_. She heaves over the edge of the bed, and she does not sick out previously digested food, but rather, she vomits stomach acid and other things she can’t name.

A smooth hand is rubbing her back, tenderly and carefully, the rough texture of the hand seeping through the flimsy dressing Hermione Granger wears. Her riotous curls that openly spoke of her Gryffindor courage once, a long time ago, are up in a mass on top of her head, for that was what was only capable of her hair at the moment as Hermione finally stops heaving, and thankfully, her hair is out of the way to not get caught up in her vomit. Her eyes burn with crustiness, and Hermione grimaces as she tastes the sourness of her mouth, and her limbs are weak once more, as she rests her head back on the pillow that was propped up now to support her.

She feels like sleeping once again now, still having no recollection of _everything_ that had transpired, as her thoughts are still cluttered of the ache and the exhaustion, but does _not want to_ rest. Her head is blinded, but her heart is not for it _aches_ of something, and it has her looking up to see an unfamiliar face.

“Dear, does it still hurt?” The thin, female healer, a complete stranger to Hermione, asks her, and Hermione opens her mouth to answer, but when her throat moves to make a sound from her voice box, it also _hurts_ there, and she can only let out a sound of a whimper coupled with a voice crack, and it was evident that the motion alone hurts much for her.

Hermione does not hear the patron, but she soon finds the cool planes of a glass filled with water pushed into her hand, and Hermione slowly drifts the cylinder to her lips, hesitating because a part of her functioning, yet hurting mind is nagging her— _is it poisoned_?—for her war senses of fight or flight have not completely diminished, even in her weakened state. She suspiciously eyes the glass, and she does not see nor smell anything strange, so she drinks it in—thinking along the lines of, “ _So what? It’s just water? I won’t die_ —”

And she stops there for a moment, and her previous memories of the events that had happened of before— _before_ she was swept up into that _warm sea of peace_ , and then spiraling into that heavy fall she had lost her consciousness to—comes back to her with vigour, and she chokes on the water, and it slips into her nose, and she gives the glass of water to the Healer, before she coughs and hacks up the liquid that could’ve killed her. Her eyes burn with tears, and her sinuses burn as she tries to placate her breathing, from the instinctual choking of her being.

Tears slip from her eyes in big drops, slipping down purple lower lids, down her hollow cheeks, then into her chapped lips, and her tears are salty bursts on her tongue as she looks up from her wet hands and lap, and into the adult eyes of many—what seems to be— _professors._ Hermione is confused for a moment, and she looks around her and this—this is _Hogwarts._

_Hogwarts._

_The castle of youth and knowledge burnt down by the hands of a madman. The place of many deaths and destruction, and the place where she lost the very innocence of her mind to the darker intentions of power and death. The trauma. The loss._

Hurriedly, her head snaps to the empty nightstand next to her, save for her familiar vinewood—and her fingers are quick in their grasp and she _holds_ this piece of her, and it also reaches out for her, and she feels united in the safe bubble of her magic, and she breathes in the sense of familiarity that tastes woody and nostalgic in her lungs—and she heaves it out, and it tastes like _calm and clarity._ She opens her eyes from the safety of her mind, and she looks back into the eyes of the Professors, that maybe _this was the afterlife_ , and because she died in Hogwarts, she was tied to this place and here was her resting ground.

But that was just her inner musings as she tried to fix the clutter that was her brain, though it was only her _body_ that was calm.

One of the Professors stepped up to her bed, her glasses catching the glare of light, and Hermione is startled, as she looks away to see the cloudy afternoon outside, an overcast day. One of her favourite days and inside of herself—it feels _wrong._ Hermione turns back to the Professor, and she is startled to already see her so close, seeing the old, kind lines on the side of her face, the wrinkles at the end of her eyes and the smile lines that bracketed her mouth. Hermione holds herself up, even to the protest of her limbs, afraid that this Professor might _do something_ , even though the woman was kind in her approach. But the Healer might’ve caught on to Hermione’s instinct far quicker than the other Professors have.

“Professor Vera, can’t you see our patient is _stressed_? We can just leave this later— _please_ ,” The healer pleads sternly, though the suspicious eyes of the Professors were also firm—saying, _there is no other time_.

“It won’t take long, Dorothy, don’t worry,” another voice speaks before this _Professor Vera_ can. The smooth and evident kindness in the voice stabs a knife through Hermione’s heart, and cold dread slips down her back. Her tears comes back from the lull of the voice— _so familiar;  Hermione was sure she had already forgotten what it sounded like_ —but she supposed she had assumed wrong.

She looks up, and again, her mind bursts with questions, coupled with pain, as she gasps and begins to cry silently, her ribs protesting and her limbs shaking, as her eyes search and _confirm_ , and then blink rapidly.

“ _He-headmaster Dumbledore?_ ” Hermione stuttered in between sobs, her face squeezed nearly into a grimace as she looked at the master manipulator of a man, though he was still a kind man with good intentions yet heavy mistakes. But nonetheless—he is _alive, and she is afraid._

Professor Dumbledore, though younger looking, looks at her interestingly, a small hint of suspicion present, but he nods nonetheless with a serene smile on his face that ought to have calmed her down, _but it does not_ , for it only sets off memories in Hermione, and she remembers suddenly— _Harry._

And then she buries herself into the flimsy covers, sobbing for the loss of her best friend, and her past, and the horrors she had to face, and she is ignorant to what Dumbledore was about to say, as her lips move over and over again—“ _Harry, I’m sorry—so, so sorry, forgive me,”_ —but the boy of decades away, her brother, _does not hear her_ , and she knows that, and she cries harder even as her hand covers her mouth to shut out her loud cries.

_And still, her friends do not hear her._

“It’s okay, dear, calm down—everything will be fine,” Professor Vera comforts Hermione, though Hermione is unaware, but to all who has the sight of the injured girl, the demons in her head are apparent, and so is the scar on her left forearm, and it is clear the child has gone through _something_ , but _what_?—they do _not_ know, and they are much more afraid to even _try_ to.

Hermione subconsciously listens to the woman’s words, and she does not hear Professor Vera, but she hears the past that sings of her mother’s lullabies, and she remembers the war she had had the biggest part to play in, and now—she was here in _somewhere._ The only constant seemed to be Professor Dumbledore, and this does not soothe her worries, but rather, intensifies them, and because of the overloading stress, and the bombardment of questions, and the overwhelming _sadness and grief_ , Hermione Granger shuts out all of her emotions so abruptly, it takes everyone by surprise when the girl looks up, and the intelligent gleam is in her eyes which, to all, strangely feels like it fits her persona, but the look of intelligence and  _death_ is scary on her face. It was a defence mechanism, but the utter blank slate mask on her face scares them—a contrast to her displayed emotions before.

Hermione does not feel the grief. _She won’t feel it yet_.

She pushes it back and wipes away her tears, sobs now becoming silent but her eyes looking up into the unfamiliar staff, except Dumbledore. Her voice is scratchy, but she pushes, “I’m okay, now— _okay_.” She grounds it out, and it leaves no room for questioning her emotional state, as it was clear, she was _not_ fine, but she was going to be. But to be frank, Hermione wanted to talk to _no one_ at all, and she was more than inclined to seal herself off and contemplate her situation before she’d start conversing with strangers and a _once-dead-now-alive_ Headmaster Dumbledore.

Hermione does not grace them with any more words, looking down at her calloused hands, and she sees the scar— _mudblood_ —and she squeezes her eyes shut, firm to force the past away, but it only makes it worse, and she opens her eyes with a clenched jaw, withdrawing from everyone who has a sight of her as she retreats back into her reverie and covers her left forearm with her hand, though not fully.

She _feels_ the dark magic beneath it, from the knife Bellatrix Lestrange had used, and she strokes her arm to soothe the pain as she shutters out the pending stares.

_Fate. Fate brought her here._

And she remembers the sickening green light— _the emerald shine of the killing curse pointed to her chest, lighting the whole forest in a ghostly glow._

Hermione’s stare is vacant, and she is unblinking, even as  a few tears fall, and she settles a hand over her breast, and she feels _something_ there through the thin fabric of the nightgown. An _old_ nightgown. She remembers Harry’s pallid face, his strewn glasses down his nose, his dirty clothes, the messy hair, and that scar on his forehead. _He is dead, but in peace,_ and to Hermione— _it hurts._

“ _Why_?” Hermione breaks the tense silence, hand clenching over her heart.

Another professor, prompted by the question, comes up, sending a suspicious glance to the girl, and a concerned one to Dumbledore. “Why what, girl?” He asks, though not unkindly, and Hermione looks up at him—her honey brown eyes the colour of tree bark stares up at him, but it is clear in her eyes, the death that lingers there. The things she had witnessed. The things she had _lost._ The sight of loss and devastation on her face is such a foreign, vacant stare to the Professors, except for one, and it stalls them quite a bit as they are ensnared within her stoic words that practically sing of her suffering.

“Why am I alive?” Hermione asks him, and she finds herself massaging the area above her breast, where her heart is, and she feels something. She lifts the collar of her nightgown as she looks down, and her eyes find a raised clump of flesh, red and twisted and spread like the trace of an explosion on her skin. _A scar from the killing curse._ Hermione loses her breath, and she assumes there— _she has survived the curse. How? How is she alive? Where is she? Was this real?—it couldn’t be!_

“We found you in the forest, girl, bleeding terribly at the head. You sustained a few broken ribs, and you had cuts all over your body—from  _several dark curses_. Games Keeper found you and brought you back,” the unnamed professor answers, and Hermione contemplates much more, sinking back into her familiar persona, and she questions her fate, and questions, and questions—until the pounding of her head comes back, and she finds herself emotionally drained, and she falls asleep into the arms of nightmares, and trauma, and she is haunted by the brilliant red of Voldemort’s eyes that have her screaming, and Harry is back on the forest floor, and Hermione still knows that no matter how much she apologised to him, he wouldn’t hear her, for he was dead, and she was not.

And fate comes to her in her dreams.

 

**0O0O0O0O0O0**

            _“_ Sooner or later, they’ll be asking of your origins, and you have no choice to answer with the truth, for whatever story you’re going to make up will back fire to you, _” says a voice so familiar to Hermione. One which has promised her change, and has saved her from the arms of death. A voice that thunders through the skies and has the ground quivering beneath her feet._

_Hermione looks up from the ground she was sat on, and she sees a glowing figure. The voice was neither a he or she, and so was the body this voice seemed to come from. All she saw was a bright being, clothed in nothing, but nor are any of their privates exposed. Fate is not a person—but just a being. **That’s it**. Hermione sits closer to Fate that exudes warmth from the very core of their being, expelling safety in its presence and prompting the being to chuckle._

_But Hermione is not amused though, as much as Fate finds it funny._

_“_ Why do I need to tell truth? Where am I, really? _”_

 _“_ You are in the February of 1943, so it is _when_ that you are asking for. _” Fate answers nonchalantly, as if they had brought a person out of their present before and have put them in the past to change their own fate. Hermione widens her eyes, her mouth open as shock takes reign of her features and what seems to be the last straw of her sanity._

 _“_ 1943? **1943**? _” She echoes, finding no other words to express her shock, and her fear, and her anger. She does not even know what emotion she should base her actions upon, for she knows that Fate had meddled with her to stop her death, but Fate had also torn her away from her life, and her family, and her friends—back at home in the past, or her_ future. _For a few moments, Hermione sputters, before she looks back to the being, eyes burning with tears._

 _“_ Wha—how?—But **_why_** _?” Is all she can ask, and for a moment, the faceless being faces Hermione, and Hermione cannot help but look back at the blank canvas of a face, devoid of all emotion in entirety (from lack of any facial features) and Hermione thinks—_ this is indeed what life is—a blank slate of not knowing and not caring, as long as a path is shifted or followed. _Fate brings on what is unwanted—_ yet needed _to strengthen a person. But Hermione digresses, that_ this _was utterly useless. She should’ve died, and they would’ve lost the war—so why continue the fight here? What was the use?_

 _But of course, Hermione already knows why, deep down with her—but she will not accept it. Why couldn’t Harry have this chance? Why couldn’t any others? Why_ her _in particular? In this time, Lord Voldemort was Tom Marvolo Riddle, a seemingly talented prodigy, and secret murderer._ A child not loved and mislead, and Hermione squashes down the instinctual compassion her heart seems to hold for all things wronged and beaten— _orphan boys, no less._

_But, with fury mixed with her moral integrity, she squashes the flat face of Voldemort onto the face of a sixteen your old, and she feels much better. But still, she does not feel amused at the moment as Fate finally looks away from Hermione’s searching stare, and her conflicted heart hidden behind her irises._

_“_ Because the future you had lived in—one which I have torn you away from—should **not** be made possible. If it happens, the balance of magic and life itself will tip over. **No balance** will be maintained at all, _” Fate answers Hermione, and Hermione catches on to the thought and intent very quick, but it still does not answer her question completely._ Why her, and why here?

 _“_ And how do you suppose I go about this? Do you **believe** that I can even make a change at all? _” Hermione asks and does not let herself touch the being and shake them in anger, and spite, and indignation—_ for it surely wouldn’t help _—and still, she bears no further thought of hasty violence as Fate gazes back at her._

 _“_ You future isn’t really changing, dear Hermione. In one way or another, you had always tried your best to correct _everything_ in your life. There are many, **many** different timelines— **alternate universes** —where you take matters into your own hands. You are a big key player in the war and people’s fate—but when you were _not_ , there was no war at all. _Only destruction._ You are a catalyst and an extinguisher for constancy. You have always gone back in time to change things—through one way or another, _” Fate expounds, and for Hermione, she contemplates the words that are meant to explain her existence within this time. Fate was simply saying that she was worth more than whatever she was credited for, and that what was happening now—_ her future, and everyone’s else’s past— _had always happened. She had always come here—_ was **meant** to be. _But did that mean she had changed history so much, that it was like that in the future? What did she do? What was she **meant** to do? Who was she? **What** was she?_

 _So Hermione cannot help but voice her questions. Voice her concerns that mount like oceans upon her back, drowning her beneath the surface and pulling her to the tides—_ swaying and bobbing once more _—but she is drowning at the sounds of her questions plaguing her mind endlessly. She quivers at it , and breaks, and she asks._

 _“_ How have I even **changed** things when you said that I’m not changing anything...? What about my **family**? My **friends**?”

_Fate stands and begins to fade away from her reverie, right in font of her very eyes, breaking off into tiny fragments of light, dancing upon the wind, and some settling onto her skin like glitter and stardust, shining like gold and geodes under the fake sun that settles upon her._

_It is by the grace of Circe that Fate gives her one last answer._

“Nothing will change, Hermione. This is where your future continues. The moment Voldemort has killed you—it has only begun his end; it had already been an action of consequence in the future. You were meant to come here, and the future was always meant to change—therefore, it does not change at all, _” the being says with an air of finality that hangs in the air, and Hermione is back—falling through mid air, cutting through the endless skies like a knife falling from heaven and she crashes upon her bed in the Hospital Wing—_ and she sits up from her covers and finds herself back in Hogwarts, with the sun setting.

For a moment, flecks of gold are upon her skin, shimmering like stars in the abysmal darkness that stirs from the shadows cast upon her from the setting sun beyond the window. Hermione breathes in deep; she shutters out all of her thoughts—and it was more often than not, now—how she was doing this action to keep herself sane and grounded.

Hermione clasps together her shaking hands, feeling the remnants of the war within her body, and keeping that magic inside of her until it calms down. She thinks of what Fate has said—and for the first time she’s ever been here, a small spark of hope is within Hermione—like the glittering fragments upon her skin.

She acknowledges that _she is_ a game changer. She acknowledges the war is not done— _but this is the beginning to its end_ —an end she would soon deliver. She acknowledges that she’s always been here—that she might’ve done something to either trigger Voldemort to become the monster that he was now, or she might’ve found a weakness in this time.

But what about her own time? How could she reach her own time long enough?

Hermione does not smile, but with her spark of hope, she begins to try and build her plan inside of her head.

She will go through this life smoothly, and find ways back to her time.

 

**0O0O0O0O0O0**

“Here. Is this fine, dear? It’s the only thing I could find so far to accommodate you,” Madam Balker held up a simple long sleeved oxford dress shirt, and a simple grey skirt, of which Hermione’s eyes were pulled to. Nothing was special about the shirt but the lacy cuffs of the long sleeves that webbed out in a floral like pattern, and Hermione welcomed the distraction of putting the clothes on as her mind silenced from the demons that lured her in, deep from the recesses of her own tired mind.

Smiling at her healer, Hermione nodded at her, a grateful smile gracing her features in an upturn of her soft lips and the slight grin underneath her purple lower lids. “Thank you, Madam Balker,” Hermione reached for the clothing, and it was softer than she thought when they met her fingers, the fabric grazing her fingers softly like a normal pair of cotton sheets.

The aching of her body has not stopped, but it has reduced to a small ache with the help of the remedies that Madam Balker had made, after a proper meal which Hermione nearly sobbed in relief at the sight of. Going on months without proper food and hygiene, and medicine, on the run with Harry Potter as one of the top three Undesirables of the Wizarding World has not been very accommodating to Hermione, so the offer of food and the short relief of clothes was already a god send to her aching heart and mind, though a sore spot developed in her heart every time she thought of the past—well, the _future._

Madam Balker stood behind Hermione and assisted her as she tried to put the clothes on, making sure not to strain her muscles or cause any more pain to her own body, which was already aching to the mild actions she was doing. The ancient magic of the castle was struggling to envelope Hermione’s body within its protection, likely from the magic Fate used to send Hermione back, as their own magic was marred by darkness. And at the thought of this darkness, Hermione rubbed a hand over her breast, where the scar was.

The scar signified that a part of her was _taken_ —a _mark_ of her undoing and becoming. It was a great burden to Hermione’s mind, though for the last remaining hours, she tried her best not to think about the hope and the new opportunities Fate had supplied to her. She was a comet pulled into orbit, diffused from the her supposed path. She was not sure what she was supposed to do at this time—for if Fate had been telling the truth, that she had always been meant to be here—that if she had _always_ been here—then that would mean that she had already made choices that had made the future come into fruition. Her presence was a spark—a catalyst to the events that would’ve transpired, otherwise, if she was not so significant, there was no point in sending her back to this timeline.

But Hermione Granger was afraid to think of what she might have to do in this time, to keep herself fighting for the eventual war, and to seek an upper hand over Voldemort. She was not sure what she was supposed to do if she were to stay here for _years_ until she caught up to the future she belonged to. Her whole presence in this time is the paradox that confuses her own existence.

It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth to think that she has to keep fighting, but determination to see her friends again was what fuelled her now to the present, changing into her clothes to prepare to talk to Albus Dumbledore and Headmaster, Armando Dippet.

She had to tell them the truth, but she was not sure how to proceed with such. It was like searching for the way up above a tree to reach the sky. There were branches upon branches to climb upon, some big, some small; some strong, some weak; some brittle, and some sturdy. She had to search her pathway to not fall—either to the manipulations of Dumbledore or many others who would use the information against her. And she has to be careful to not get tangled up within the confines of other outer forces that might endanger her life.

Hermione had to find her own way, and in the cracks of her aching heart, and the quaking of her crumbling bones, she knows, Fate may be a tricky one, but for now, she should trust the only other thing she had left. Her magic at that moment was unstable, and she was a very particular failure at the art of lying, though it was actually something she was proud about (though in the future, she will wish to be a particularly good liar), she would hope to persuade Headmaster Dippet and the Transfigurations Professor, Albus Dumbledore, to trust her deep down, for it might be the only way to confirm her stay here to be able to fight on and continue in life.

But for decades, there has never been a “ _Hermione Granger”_ for a long time, and she thinks of  a possible surname.

Tightening her collar and fixing her skirt, Hermione avoids any subtle movements of brushing her previous scars, and she forces herself to be more guarded as she gathers an even stronger front than before, that it is completely unlike her Gryffindor persona—completely unlike her previous self that just dives into the fray, wands blazing and stance squared to fight. War has changed Hermione Granger. War has changed the child.

But she does not know if it is for the better.

 _She is not sure_ , even as she settles her wand into a subtle holster to her forearm underneath the long sleeves, and she feels relief and warmth trickle through her as she unconsciously tells herself that there are no enemies around to suddenly attack her. Her heart is calmed, but her mind and body is waiting for a fight, and that— _that_ was what Hermione was waiting for.

Through the forest that acted like a barrier to her trembling body— _she sees the darkness_ —the enemy that stands before her like a shield before her salvation. It does not relent, but it makes her heart beat faster and faster, like a drum in a marching band, pounding down open London streets and staggering through her cluttered mind, and _she breathes_ , and it is _hard_ to even maintain a single breath of relief. Jade green eyes, the sweet burst of grass underneath her feet, a shade so profound yet _vacant_ of any life—as it stares up at her from the muddy ground, and Hermione blinks, and she stops herself from crying out loud as she wobbles on her knees, searching for a place to fall onto.

Madam Balker hurriedly gave a vial to Hermione, and a sense of calm and clarity eased into her brain as the scent wafted to Hermione’s nose. Wiping away the sweat on her forehead, she drank the potion as Madam Balker brushed her hair to the side, soothing Hermione. She begins making a plait out of Hermione’s bushy hair, and Madam Balker is smooth and fluid in her movements enough, that it calms Hermione down, and it keeps her nearly healed ribs from hurting anymore.

“I may not know what you may have suffered through, dear,” Madam Balker began with a soft edged, tone of voice, and Hermione has her heard filtered out and has her thoughts become numb as the Draught of Peace soothes her muscles and her facial features. Hermione idly remembers that she had not given Madam Balker her own name yet.

“Madam Balker?” Hermione turned slightly, prompting Madam Balker to smile languidly at her, despite staring back at the blank, but serene features of a war torn child,with the trade mark of death lingering on her scarred, battered body. Madam Balker has always been acquainted with death, and it is very tragic, just as it is both ugly and beautiful. It brings tragedy upon the living, but it gives peace to those who move on from their suffering.

But she knows, that death is the driving factor that pushes people to live. And as much as people don’t want to lose so much in their lives, it is in losing everything that you learn what you will need.

Madam Balker knows it is the same for this girl.

“My dear, I think you suffer—what do those muggles call it?” Madam Balker struggled with finding the words, before she peered back at Hermione,  kind features twisted, and Hermione found herself comparing the soft, matronly woman in front of her to the stiff, firm mediwtich of 1999, Madam Pomfrey, and Hermione swallows the shock of pain that goes through her heart into the features of her face.

“Trauma—yes, something with _trauma_ ,” the healer nods, and Hermione nods along, knowing it _does_ make sense, as little glimpses of her past sometimes trigger memories, as the sight of pure darkness reminds her of the Forbidden forest, or the death heaters, and the hundreds of cloaked bodies falling to the ground of Hogwarts, and red as crimson as the setting sun reminds her of Voldemort’s vacant, murderous gaze that sends her off into a panic attack that she will _die_ again, and that her friends will die again, and she is simply _afraid_ of red now, as it reminds her of pain.

The Draught of Peace slows down Hermione’s bodily reactions to the thoughts of death and destruction that courses through her brain, and her body does not contort in pain and anguish—its normal reaction. Soothing down her sleeves, Hermione fingers the laced ends of her cuffs, entangling her chewed nails into the embroidery, fraying them. It was her usual nervous habit—to be stranded in a sea, clinging to your life line.

Hermione replies, “I see,” with a nod of her head, her voice soft. Turning her head, Hermione looks into a hand mirror that Madam Balker pushes into her hand. Hermione turns to the reflective surface of the mirror, and she does not know what to think of the girl who stares back at her.

A sallow faced girl is there in the mirror, malnourished and still haunted by the demons that linger at the edges of her soul, feeding on her will and struggles. Dark lashes fan over pale, hollow cheeks. The usual warmth of her face is gone,  and the brightness in her eyes diminished. Her riotous curls are tamed by the plait, but they are much tamer than before, _limp in its entirety_. Hermione’s eyes are dead, darker like the night and gone to her mind immersed into her plans and her knowledge of the future. Her hope is there in her heart, a treasure chest buried _so deep_ into the debris of her human foundation, but it is hard to find within her face. Her mask is cemented over her face, and all it should take is a proverbial sledgehammer to break her defences.

But she would not allow anything nor anyone to break this facade of her’s, and her treasure chest won’t be erected from the debris just yet.

She had to be sure about herself and the plan she had to take in this past—in this _present_.

Hermione turns to Madam Balker, and just for a bit, she smiles with a genuine emotion that, though Madam Balker knows little of the child, she cherishes the small bout of human vulnerability present on the girl’s face (even if it is from the effects of the draught of peace).

Hermione brushes a hand down her hair, forgetting the mirror on the bed and delicately feeling the plait woven together by the healer. It is a small glimpse of peace that filters through the Draught of Peace to the patronly woman.

“Thank you, Madam Balker,” Hermione thanks the woman as she stands up, slowly gaining her footing. “My name is Hermione, if you wanted to know, though.”

“You’re welcome, dear Hermione,” Madam Balker smiles back at the girl, swaying in the usual way she does. Remembering something in her pockets, Madam Balker fishes out several vials. “Here—a few sleeping draughts to help you, another few to soothe the sudden pains, and a few draughts of peace. It can help you get settled in. You’re always welcome to come back here—if you stay in Hogwarts, that is, darling.”

Feeling a spark of warmth beneath her chest flare at the small names, Hermione thanks the Healer graciously once more, before meeting the person outside who would lead her to the current Headmaster’s office. But Hermione, having been too preoccupied for the last hours, had not completely gotten just _who_ was about to escort her.

Beyond the door, as she limps slightly, she just about finds out who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here's one thing I want to talk about for my own character portrayal of Hermione Granger and why I worry so much if I am not accurate and people do not like it. For this chapter, and the following, I simply do not only portray Hermione as a strong female lead, but I also want to strengthen her more by laying clear many of her weaknesses.
> 
> Remember, she is a child who has fought in a war that she shouldn't even have been in (plus, she was one of the key players). But I wanted it to be clear that she is simply a child, though she might've been awfully mature for her age, I wanted to remind everyone that not all the time do these strong heroines of ours keep relying on faith and trust, because Hermione, to me, is a very down to earth character. She relies on her thoughts and her knowledge, and is very rational and resourceful, and I find it very appropriate for her to downplay slightly her future brazenness and pride, for she is in a very foreign age, and she is in a very dangerous position.
> 
> I want to portray Hermione as the war torn child that she is--the warrior that lives underneath her. But I also want to portray that not all warriors stay strong as always. I want to display the humanity and weakness within warriors, because everyone portrays heroes as indestructible these days, and though I am a bit reluctant in down playing that, psychological trauma for Hermione Granger through the bloodshed and death she's seen is very present. I feel that she was made so indestructible and perfect throughout all other fan fictions, it is nearly immortalised. I only want to couple her strength with her weakness, as one cannot exist without the other, for it is utter balance to her character. 
> 
> Hermione Granger is a very rational, mentally organised person. But it is psychological trauma that can shake her to the core, and going through a war like that, Hermione Granger can be muddled, and her thoughts can be mixed together with strategy and her willingness to survive. Hermione Granger is strong, but there are many ways she can break. I wanted people to know that.
> 
> I hope you guys will understand that this is the kind of Hermione Granger I am going before. She is still the strong, smart girl we know, but I also want to show you her weak, vulnerable side, and the child that she should be. See you next time!


	3. Forbear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione Granger meets the person who has been waiting beyond the Hospital Wing doors. She slowly plants the roots of her existence in the past of the 1940's, as her heart and mind begins to deliberate. Along the way, rumours spread fast of the "Red Girl", and a certain young man cannot help but get interested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, but J.K. Rowling does, and I am in no way making profit from this work, for all I do is play with her characters to my heart's content with a plot that spirals into chaos.
> 
> And with that disclaimer aside, I hope all of you will love this chapter for I have tried my best to make it as read-proof as possible on my own. And this chapter is only the beginning to the events that will soon come.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy, and thank you to everyone who has given kudos to this story (even though I do not know how that works), and my gratitude is even extended to those who have even bothered to read this at all! Thank you so much!

**Chapter Three**

**_“_ ** _Don’t go where you are needed. Go where you are loved. **”**_

**_—_ ** _Lang Leav_

           

            For a moment, the doors are heavy underneath her fingers, busy persuading her to stay, chastising her small weaknesses into giving in and making her writhe with a lack of decision. She pauses and hesitates, waging a war within herself to— _go, talk to them and tell them the truth_ —and her fingers twitch with the finality of her decision, reigning back her decisiveness into her reverie, like a current of electricity flowing through the conductor, which was metal— _who was her._

When the door moves under her behest, it is ironic enough, though, that she is _shocked_ by what she sees. Parting from the doors and left bereft in the once familiar hallways, her eyes look up from the grey stone floors, marked by the recognition of both past, present, and the soon future (knowledge which she _alone_ knows), up into a familiar pair of sharp eyes of a raven-haired girl, no strand out of place from her immaculate up-do. The future firmness of her eyes are softened halfheartedly by the innocence and joyfulness of youth. Her future wrinkles and lines that would exist were now, momentarily, non-existent, but it let the fullness of who she once was shine through. The old Hogwarts uniform that she wore was no doubt fixed to its best; Gryffindor tie and insignia fixed, along with the Head Girl’s badge pinned firmly above her right breast. Front robes were buttoned, and the waist was much more narrow, in order to show her figure, with her collars high to frame her neck.

The sight ceases Hermione Granger by her heart, making it painful for her to breathe. Her fingers curl around the lace edges of her cuffs—an action of practical anxiety and internal struggle—as she plays with the loose threads rather than rub her arms up and down to soothe her chills and her thrumming scars.

Monsters, however, play with the edges of Hermione’s soul, mocking her like a modern day work of a dadaist painting, the ends of her being frayed into tiny, fly-away threads slowly losing form. Words do not come for Hermione, and she clenches her hands, refusing to let them tremble. The warrior strengthens her facade, and her face is the side of a new building, not crumbling nor cracking.

But no one knows that she is breaking inside.

_It is better that way._

Clearing her throat, Hermione smiles at the Head Girl who has yet to introduce herself. But even inasmuch that Hermione’s facade is strong, her weak body and exhaustion was apparent through her tired slouch and her lop-sided smile that bordered a grimace. But social cues preceded her own being, and she spoke first before the Head Girl.

“I believe that, uh,” Hermione cleared her throat once more, “You’re my guide, yes? My name is Hermione,” Hermione stretched out her faint hand, a first offering of friendliness that she takes for the first time in the era of the 40’s, with their very strict social cues and status quo. At that reminder, Hermione reminds herself to straighten her back up a bit more.

The girl offers her smile in return, offering the same warmth Hermione exuded with her own hand. “Minerva McGonagall,” Minerva speaks, beaming at Hermione with kindness and a friendly regard. Turning in the corridor, Minerva sweeps her hand down the path that was once an escape for children, escaping masked murderers and fearing death. Hermione does not show the cracks of her armour, but she feels them internally at the glimpse of the future.

_She pushes the feeling away for now_.

“Come, Headmaster Dippet and Professor Dumbledore is waiting for your arrival,” Minerva beckons, in the fading afternoon that now borders the night. They are left stranded in a sea of emptiness between them, and no matter how closer Hermione was right now to her future matriarch, she feels farther than she’s ever been before, separated by revelations and knowledge and notions of the future that won’t exist yet; won’t come to fruition if she makes a mistake. That the other girl won’t ever know, but will experience, and here, Hermione realises her need to stay away from _everyone_ she might know of, and she realises the burden of it all.

And the burden is _heavy_ , and she alone, witnesses the weight of it as it presses down on her shoulders. Hermione Granger nearly cries as they walk down the corridors, with herself breaking and the other unknowing. But, it is nonetheless painful to bear a chance of hope for the future, and also bearing the will to break it. It is a painful revelation, but regardless of the pain, it is but another in a sea of her sufferings. The witch continues on.

Hermione had never paid much attention to the architecture of Hogwarts before, nor the armours, the statues, or even the paintings that much. But now, always glancing once or twice to compare the level of dust and the new varnish on each painting; the polished suits of armour, the chiselled statues, or even the cobwebs of the stone archways. Hermione tells herself that she is walking in a foreign ground now with enemies that she does not know of, except for one. It is the new battleground—stranded amongst unknowing peers who could be most likely enemies. Hermione does not know how to proceed when she alone has knowledge of the future. Because too much knowledge meant knowing too much; and knowing too much meant knowing the consequences.  _And there were so many._ But as she turns down corridors with Minerva McGonagall, she breathes.

They reach the Headmaster’s office.

Hermione lets out a breath and closes her eyes as Minerva says the password— _“Dragon Hide”_ —and she looks up to see the Gargoyle jump aside, and she sees the ascending stairs. Sending a small smile and farewell to Minerva, Hermione stops the trembling of her hands as the stairs went upward. For one last time, Hermione closes her eyes before walking through the door.

_This is the first branch she will take up that tree._

Hermione strengthens herself to walk through the door, and like a barrier, memories begin to trickle through—and _breathe._ She won’t let them— _not yet_. This was not going to be a good time to be reminded of the past. It won’t do any good. Even as her body aches and the monsters itch to sink their talons into the root of her brain to sweep her feet off the ground and into the arms of the darkness, she is still a warrior. Weak as she may be right now, but she is strong enough to stand on her own.

And _yes_ , she is alone.

With no one by her side. No Ron to cry over and no Harry to worry for.

She is truly and utterly alone, and that— _that._ It makes her _stronger_ , because it will be for _them_.

They had suffered so many losses, and this was her chance to change the whole game in their favour. There was no right or wrong in war, and if _this_ was a chance of winning—of _any_ sort of victory after all—then she would take it—every last drop of it like an oasis for her own relief. She will take it, and wring it dry until only sand remains and what lives within her is the hope to go on and make a change— _or not make a change but continue the end of this story_ —and this is what keeps her going. Not the will of survival, but the dedication to her friends. And to _whoever_ may think friendship is foolish and disastrous!—then _look_ at the warrior now and believe that this notion, is, in fact, _true_ to its very form. For it may drive people to go crazy, but that in itself is the beauty, for their hearts and minds are so devoted, they will trudge through every pathway on earth just to find a way—and pain?  _It is not a weakness to them, but strength._

That is what those who have truly surrendered will never understand, for they only flee in the sight of pain, and not fully accept it.

Hermione Granger opens the door with a renewed heart.

Though her plan may be non-existent, it is only _for now_. She has so much time to make a move, she will not have to worry so much yet. She, is after all, still a child. Her body is still new, though there are scars that marks her past—she will need time to heal herself both physically, and mentally. She should be stronger than before to face her future adversaries.

When she walks in to the room of authority, she finds a peaceful silence waiting for her, speaking like a soft whisper caressing her ears. Hermione swallows soundlessly under the sight of the two predecessors, the other who will be long dead before her time, and the other who will die right in this castle. She sits in the seat that the dead have presented for her.

“Good evening, darling. Are you finally fine, now?” It is the Headmaster who speaks first, opting to be the opener of tonight’s conversation. Hermione smiles politely, sitting stiffly in the uncomfortable seat and playing with the arm rests of the unfamiliar seat. There are no glowing knick knacks that blinds her eyes, no stacking book cases nor amazing phoenix. And it is good, at least, for she misses _everything_ in her time, and she does not want to hesitate anymore in the sight of her final chance.

She does not want to depend and forget her enemies at the reminder of her future—and she will not want any of them to be hurt in this time except for herself. Everyone has suffered too much, even _she_ had suffered so much, but she’d rather be the sacrificial lamb than let it be Harry anymore.

And maybe, she assumes, _that_ will be her downfall.

Caring and loving too much, that it hurts. Caring so much, that she’d rather be broken.

But she’s happy, and that’s what’s good, and that is what Voldemort will _never_ understand. His red gaze—as vacant as a continuous abyss will never have the meaning of life that every other soul holds. He had suffered so much—and tried to make that suffering into power and made it such a weapon so hard, and was consumed so bad by his pain, that he did not see what he was truly doing to himself. He did not know what kind of suffering he was pressing upon the people. Did not know that by making this power so strong, he had been defeated by it itself.

_That_ was his downfall, and unlike him, Hermione would never let herself be consumed by power when she had others to tether her down to the earth orbiting her world. But _that_ weakness was the weakness of Voldemort, and here— _he was Tom Riddle_. An old or a new face? She does not know, but she knows one thing.

She would _not_ be controlled by power, grief, guilt, and fear. And at the end of her thoughts, she hopes that Tom Riddle hasn’t been consumed completely by the overwhelming urge to flee death yet. Facing the inevitable future, Hermione answers Dippet.

“I am fine, sir. Madam Balker has nursed me up to my best form that I am capable right now.” Hermione sat up straighter, focusing her gazes on these patriarchs, strengthening her resolve. Her eyes are laden with steel like her spine, straight and unwavering. “But I have certain—“ she pauses, searching for the word, “ _circumstances_ that stop me from saying my actual name as of right now.” With her meticulous plan to end the words there to open further discussion upon her existence, her plan starts taking the supposed path it should be as both men become intrigued and suspicious by the news. There is a worry that itches beneath Hermione’s skin, but she does not concede to its prompting. There is a strength in her heart and though it is uncertain belief—it is _faith_. Fate is by her side, and nothing else assures her more than this and the future of which she will continue— _or make._

“And what, pray tell, are those _circumstances_ , dear girl? I have every inclination to hand you over to the Ministry if you are, in any way, a trespasser of these grounds. An _intruder_.” Dippet says as a warning, though his eyes are open and willing to hear the truth that he will bear witness to at any moment. Albus Dumbledore, however, is still the man with the twinkling eyes, blending into the background and observing her like she is a strange painting in a museum. But Hermione sees through him. He's intrigued. _Suspicious_. The Dumbledore now and the future Dumbledore are nearly seamless in nature.

“Well, you see, Headmaster Dippet, I _do not_ belong to this time,” Hermione begins, words seeming unsure, accompanied by her slight fidgeting, even under the influence of the Draught of Peace—the clarity that runs straight through her nerves like ocean currents. But it does not slow her down. Her words are true, and her eyes are a testament, and her battered body and sudden appearance— _evidence_. “I belong to the future— _fifty-six_ years ahead from now. It is an— _erm_ —an unknown magic that has sent me here under dire circumstances which I can absolutely _not_ divulge to any of you, but can imply.”

The two men stare at Hermione for a moment in their brief pause of silence, weighing out the truth of her words and the faith they have enough to believe in this girl. But the old men merely look from her, and then to each other, and they are silent still, conversations shared in between personal notions not verbalised, yet agreed upon by the sudden curious tilt of Albus Dumbledore’s head in her direction. A sign of trust with deliberation. A suspicion mixed with intrigue and worry.

Stroking his beard, he smiles. “We both trust you, child.” He says first, making hope spark bright in Hermione’s chest. “But, I believe, even if you have good intentions here in Hogwarts—what these _dire circumstances_ had caused you to come battered and bruised and come running to _here_ of all places—we need evidence to support your claim. Something to disprove that this is all a lie, my dear. We just need something that won’t harm your timeline.”

Releasing a breath of air—totally prepared for this question of evidence—a weight is lifted off of Hermione’s shoulder as demons unlatch themselves from her back. Her hand reaches into the pocket of her skirt, to where her beaded bag lays, innards expanded to fit many objects of which mean her total survival. And at this moment— _that bag_ is survival _, brought to save her one more time._

Her hand reaches inside of the beaded bag, arm to shoulder swallowed as her fingers grab for the spine of the book. The old, hardback of decayed title and mere childish tale. Feeling hopeless for a moment, she pulls out her own wand, and points down at the bag.

“Accio, Tales of Beedle the Bard!”

The book sails into her hand like the flicker of hope that she had first breathed in when she had heard Fate talk to her back in the Forbidden Forest. At the reminder, she closes her eyes, but the book settles her back down to earth and not below to purgatory where her soul floats in endless doubt that compresses her being into a shrivelling mess. She opens here eyes, and shakily eyes the book, unknowing why tears seem to sting her eyes. But it is just the revelation that the _very same man_ who has left this book for her in his will is _asking for it now_ in the present.

She meets Dumbledore’s eyes, and he recognises the covering of the book, yet it had not looked _that old_ here in 1943.

_But perhaps, in 1999, it did._

Deftly handing the book to Dumbledore first, Hermione clears her throat to stop herself from cracking. She smiles, and she cradles her beaded bag in her hands, looking at the book with such conviction and reason that prompts both men to look more into it, though it is Dumbledore who finds to recognise it too.

“You left this to me, in 1999. I love to read, you see, and you thought that I might find it entertaining and instructive,” Hermione says, and does not lie, but does not completely tell the truth either.

Albus Dumbledore pauses for a moment at the evidence, and he turns to Dippet’s questioning gaze. “It is my only book, Armando. Of Tales of Beedle the Bard, first editon,” Albus says softly, waving a hand over the cover to find any sort of curse  put into place and finding none. He breathes, “The book that which should be in my office right now.”

“This cannot be, Albus! You have strong wards built in your office,” Headmaster Dippet exclaims, intrigued yet gobsmacked as he looks wide-eyed to Dumbledore, then to Hermione. Hermione stays silent.

“She tells of the truth, Armando.”

“Yes—perhaps, she does,” he nods, but he looks back up at Hermione. The Headmaster still seems unsure of what decision to make. He leans forward and braces himself by the desk. “But what is your purpose here, darling? What is it that you wish to do now?”

There, for a moment, Hermione stops when she hears the second question. In all honesty, she _does not_ know the answer to that question. What she wants to do— _what she wanted to do_. What she _wishes_ to. She wants to protect her friends and family—fight for the future war—search for a way back to her time. Find weakness in Tom Riddle’s plan now. She does not have to try and come into contact with Tom Riddle when she herself can just find ways to tamper with his plan from afar, keep tabs of where he is, or simply just find much more older magic to reverse Horcruxes. To _extract_ souls from none living things.

She wants to finish her life.

Her education.

To return to normal what should’ve been.

Hermione opens and closes her mouth for a moment, remembering each sweet smile on both of her parents' face— _home_ —along with her friends and their silly antics, and it brings tears to her eyes because she seems _so sure_ of her purpose here, as Fate had said, but she feels so unsure in _herself_. But no— _no more crying. No more hesitating._

_Only living._

“I was running away from _great danger_ ,” she says, almost hoarsely and it catches their attentions. Her eyes dance with the demons of the past, not seeing but _feeling_ , and they feel her crackling magic responding to the thoughts in her head. The anguish that exists. The determination. Her small form dances with magic long forgotten—but for them— _it is new_ , and she looks up, eyes wide and red, and she is retelling— _not talking._ “That killed my friends—took my family—and I was supposed to _die,_ but for some reason I am here, living _now_." Her eyes flicker down to her calloused hands for a moment, tiredly clenching them into a fist, and then looking up. "And I know the rules of time enough to _not_ tell you anything that will give you the knowledge of the future. But right now, all I want is to stay and finish my education and rebuild my life. My name is Hermione, and...that's all I can tell you for now.”

There is a silence that both these patriarchs take to contemplate—and it is clear that they trust her to some extent, and they hold pity and compassion for her—because the scar that they had seen on her arm—her bloody appearance the first time they saw her when they were alerted by Games Keeper Pringle during one of the weekends. Portraits who have seen the girl had spread the news to most of the population of the castle, and in the duration that Hermione had slept for recovery, it had been nearly a few weeks of January, to February that it took for Madam Balker to rid the girl of foreign curses that encased her body. To heal her completely and remedy her pain. It had been hard to keep the students from entering the Hospital Wing. But Madam Balker had done her best to hide Hermione behind blinds to give her privacy, even when she was in a state of coma.

The girl looked utterly bizzare, yet she seemed magically strong. And her, sitting now, back straight and poised, her eyes determined and _burning_ through them like a pit of flames that seared through her ashy, doe brown eyes, they felt compelled to help her.

There is no need to deny a helpless child of hope and an opportunity to continue their life.

But it is hypocritical of Dumbledore, and Hermione acknowledges that it had been his downfall. But nonetheless, she smiles with utter relief and triumph when the look of final decision comes to their faces, and her heart is unburdened and she feels hope like sweet nectar on her tongue; a reprieve on her mind.

“We will gladly help you, Miss Hermione,” Headmaster Dippet smiles, along with Dumbledore.

Then they launch into a discussion that turns into an argument of _what_ will be her last name, and what her past will be. It is Headmaster Dippet who begins this small dispute first.

“Shall you keep your last name, Miss Hermione, or shall we change it to protect your identity?”

Hermione pauses for a moment, not knowing if she should keep her last name or not, and both of the men eye her carefully, waiting for her answer that may decide her fate. But she does not feel compelled to part with her own name yet—too overwhelmed and tired to even comprehend just how much of a burden this will be. Yet, she still takes the step that Fate has decided for her.

She exhales out of her mouth, telling Dippet, “My last name is Granger. Hermione Granger. I think I’d want to keep my last name as it is.” That is Hermione’s decision, fate solely untouched and thus fortifying her existence in this time even more. Yet, ironically, it is Dumbledore who lets in on his opinion, calling Hermione and Dippet’s attention.

“Do not mind me, Miss Granger”— _she does and will always will_ —“But I believe that keeping your last name is not a good decision,” he says, his devious mind still working in this _spritely_ age of his, prompting Hermione to mentally sneer at this man’s odd way of cryptically sending people to danger just to be _safe._ He continues, “People may search for you in the future, you see— _change your timeline_ , as they do call it. Though I do understand your feelings of parting from your original name, but perhaps the best option now is to reconstruct a new name, no? We’d want you to be safe and good, away from those who intend to use you.”

This—Hermione sees—is where the self-righteousness of Albus Dumbledore comes in. He believes that he knows so much of what present threats are—what the concept of good and evil is—that he _believes_ that he has to separate and protect the other and eradicate every other being on earth who has an ounce of darkness within them. He thinks he knows _so much_  about what is right and will do _anything_ under his will to change the outcome of events, ultimately disregarding the emotions and feelings that people have—apathetic to the pain of others. He regards darkness like a mistake—a _pest_. _Not another side of people. Not a side of human beings. Not a form of life that is not so often noticed_. Albus Dumbledore is a hypocrite, because in order to eradicate threats or problems, he does not use dark magic at all to manipulate others, but he uses other people and their desires, and their desperation to follow under his will and his plan. And though he may think it is for the _greater good_ , he acts like Darkness itself, always burrowing deep within the minds and hearts of others and controlling them to do the unimaginable.

_Which has prompted him to ignore the silent, invisible pleas of a boy unloved, abandoned, frightened, and scarred by both the worlds he had lived in that granted him no reprieve. Albus Dumbledore had done what darkness would do, which gave birth to an even bigger darkness, that he would later come to regret._

Slowly, the more Hermione witnesses the young, working mind of Albus Dumbledore, though his intentions are quite good, she is deeply disturbed by how he had nearly _not changed_ at all. He always kept an eye on Tom; same with Harry, though he used Harry more as a lamb for slaughter and always watched and accused Tom over small, useless things just because the boy _seemed_ evil. 

Hermione shakes her head, not meeting Dumbledore’s disappointed gaze, not wanting to be reminded of the future that she had stepped out of, to be thrown into another era that seems so much like her own— _yet so completely foreign, that it makes her homesick._ Maybe, someday, she will understand what Tom Riddle feels like to be watched over and abandoned the same way Albus Dumbledore had done to him. Maybe, she will come to understand everything.

But now, she does not accept Dumbledore’s advice. She asserts her deicision once more. “I want to stay as Hermione Granger, because in the future—no _Hermione Granger_ has been ever found. So, if this is indeed the past that I had come from, then no change has been ever done whatsoever in the future when I have appeared here.”

With these words in mind, her decision becomes understandable, and they obey her wish. But this makes these two contemplate once more.

“So, you have always been here, all along?” Dumbledore ponders.

Hermione nods, worried for her own being as the Draught of Peace finally escapes her veins slowly, like a cool veil being slipped off of her head. “Yes, y-you can say it like that.”

“Extraordinary,” Dippet whispers as his eyes dance with a haze of thoughts and probably curiosity. Dumbledore nods along with him. But escaping his daydream, Dippet tilts his head to Hermione. “What shall we tell the school of where you’ve come from? I may be able to create records for you—but those records may only be consisted of the data of what you will give us today, and the following. The Ministry has impeccable traces on each magical child on the continent these days, and I have no doubt they have begun recording your appearance here now. What shall we say, Miss Granger?”

“Well, I have no doubts that a few people had seen me,” Hermions contemplates, thinking quickly that it would be impossible now to _lie_ to people about how she had come here. Coming to think of it, she had not found out _how long_ she had been here in the past during her recovery, not knowing _how many_ people had actually seen her and not knowing just _how much_ she had been affected by the time travel.

 Time travel is certainly dangerous, indeed, for there are many theories surrounding the thread of time. But having been sent _this far_ into the past, she would not know yet just _how much_ magical compounds and energy of the past can interact with her magical composition that lives within her flesh and body that comes from the _future._ There was always a reason why travelling through time could only be restricted through hours, or just a day, as turning back into the material existence of the past takes big amounts of magic that is contained within the Time Turner. Each hour in time has new magic compounds being born every moment, living and dying; resurrecting from their graves, escaping the ground.

Going through time would be like going through thousands of layers of magic within each moment or hour, and to understand its complete weight, go ahead and compress all those moments down into _years_. It would be like travelling through millions of barriers, having magical compounds within the body—especially her magical core—renewed and taking in new (or old) born magic from forgotten times, as magic isn’t really consistent within human bodies (that have inconsistent intensities or strength), but within _atmospheres_. It was like apparition, but through time, and if Fate had not been _so careful_ with her, she would have been leaving every part of her through every year leading up to here— _1943._ Her body would’ve probably been broken down into dust and magic.

And now, she understood, why she had been enveloped in that sea that felt like silk and air, cocooning her body, and aggressively throwing her down the spiral of history. To keep her magical compound and her flesh and bones safe. To keep her soul and magical core intact, yet unstable.

Hermione looks up, escaping from her notions and experience of Time Travel and fate changing. She suddenly feels so old, and it saddens her, that if she had not been friends with _Harry Potter_ at all, then she would’ve led a normal life. Probably be having more time taking care of herself. Always have the rest of her time with her family. And yet—she does _not_ regret her times with him. For if she had _not_ been friends with Harry Potter, she would’ve been ignorant. If she had not met him, she wouldn’t have known what courage and bravery was.

If she had not met him, she wouldn’t have had the ambitions and goal in life to simply cherish her friends, her safety, and then live on for a happy ending for them _all_ instead of just herself.

If it weren’t for Harry Potter, she wouldn’t have had a broken heart and a contrite spirit. _A forgiving heart and a repentant spirit._

And she understands now that she has done _all of this_ for Harry, and in exchange, Harry had made her a strong person in return. _But he is not here now and won’t ever be until the next fifty years_ —yet she _believes_ she can bear it. _She wants to._ This time, she will not depend on a Harry to be her reason to keep on going. She will not depend on a Harry to continue on fighting. She will _not_ depend on her past any longer, to strengthen her reasons to live and to keep her fighting for their side.

She will _fight_ for herself, to mature fully. She will _not_ take lives in the process of this journey. She will strengthen herself no matter what—without _anyone’s_ help. She will keep fighting— _for her future. For what will be the future._

She will continue her life as a child, and continue on being a warrior, until the years fly by and the day finally comes. She will lead everyone’s fate, under her very own.

Hermione tells them, “Tell them that I had been pulled away from my time by strong accidental magic—but do not specify _how long_  I am from the future. Mask me with obscurity. Be honest—but not _completely_. I think I may go by with that, Headmaster.”

Then, as others would expect it, Dumbledore asserts his warnings again within her decisions, Hermione remaining ignorant, or rather, apathetic. “But that would _surely_ endanger you, and lead others who would want to manipulate you right in front of you, Miss Granger. It would _not_ be safe at all,” he says softly, with every bout of kind, yet twisted honesty and care he has for her. A small pang comes into Hermione’s heart when she hears the small bout of worry he has for her, but she strengthens herself.

Resolve like steel lines her eyes, and she looks at the two patriarchs firmly, showing her armoured warrior hiding behind the hide of a skinned lioness.

“Let them come at me—and they will see. I know their future, so I will change them in the blink of an eye if they ever try to lay a hand on me,” Hermione says, or rather, _threaten_ s, which intrigues both of the men. They feel uneasy when they see the utter truth in her eyes; the darkness that she had witnessed and _will_ portray, yet, they’ve already promised to help her.

“Are you sure that will be safe, love? Won’t it bother you?”

Hermione shakes her head, smiling sadly, as if hearing his words silly. “It won’t be safe, and it _will_ bother me, but I will not let myself be used that way— like _leverage. Power._ Only those who are weak seek power—and that’s why they don’t know how to handle it. But I am not power. I am _knowledge._ I am not achieved. I am _taught_. And soon enough, when people come to know what _I_ alone know—they will soon enough see that there are _certain things_ not worth enough to even know about.” She says the utter truth and notion that rests within her, coming out from her war-hardened resolve that masks the lines of her face.

These two wizards _do not_ want to know what she means by those words, those scars they had once seen on her body and both in her eyes already enough evidence that bears testament to her trials and tribulations. It stirs pity and helplessness within their bodies, making them question what will happen in the future. Despairing all of their hopes from this _peaceful_ path. They hoped it would _not_ be Grindelwald who would lead this bloodshed.

_And what a surprise in the future that, soon, it won’t ever be._

“I see. We understand, Miss Granger. Now, shall I ask something else, perhaps?” Headmaster Dippet moves on to the lighter part of the conversation, his wizened smile stretching upon his thin lips. “That—you are perhaps, already familiar with the castle and the houses?”

Hermione smiles at this, reminiscing memories that nearly bring tears to her eyes. She clenches her hands into fists to stop herself from losing her mind to the glimpses of the war, fighting another battle. She stops thinking of the past for a moment, reminding herself that she is this way because the effects of the Draught of Peace had worn off.

She nods her head after a slow exhale, meeting her cleared eyes that have chased the demons away. “Yes, I was once a student. _Gryffindor_.”

“Ah, splendid!” Headmaster Dippet exclaims, sending Albus a cheerful look. “Shall we just sort you off into Gryffindor?”

At this reminder, Hermione shakes her head frantically—because Gryffindor means _lion,_ and her house colour is red— _scarlet red like blood, roses, velvet, traffic lights, lava—Voldemort’s eyes._ She heaves out a shaky breath, bearing the glimpses of an emerald flash behind her eyelids—the reminder of her death. The images pain her, nearly bringing her to rapid tears.

_It had always been ironic, you see. That Harry’s eyes were green, like grass. **Like Slytherin**. Like the green light of the Avada. Voldemort’s eyes were red—like blood. **Like Gryffindor**. The red sheen of the Expelliarmus. Opposites. They had always been opposites. Two sides of the same coin—a dichotomy to each other’s existence_ —and her brain goes overdrive, switching Harry’s eyes with Voldemort’s, and Voldemort’s with Harry’s— _Harry bearing Voldemort’s soul—Voldemort bearing Harry’s. Fate intertwined._

It terrifies Hermione so much, she gasps out loud—“ _NO!_ ” And they become silent to her outburst, watching as the witch shakes her head to the floor, crying slowly and breaking softly; cradling herself, touching her scars like a reminder, escaping her promised resolve _not_ to break face. _It is t_ _he proof of her trauma; the horrible fate of the future. She wants to be normal again._ She wants these glimpses to _stop_ , yet they do not and they _relentlessly_ assault her.

“I-I....I don’t want Gryffindor. R-Ravenclaw. Send me _there_ ,” Hermione whispers shakily, afraid to speak aloud, scared that it might wake another flash of the past within the recesses of her mind. Gryffindor was a reminder of Voldemort— _her new fear of red_ —and Slytherin reminded her of Harry’s eyes, _safety_ , yet the ancestral root  of the man who had killed her best friend. _The den of her enemies._

She’d rather be in peace. She’d rather sleep without being surrounded by the past nor bombarded by the enemy. She chooses the house where her mind belongs, and _needs_ to be there. In that clarity where her mind was the dominant. Where her thoughts conquered her emotions. Like before, she shuts her feelings out and let’s her head return, though it is a struggle of contention between herself.

“Please—if it’s not too much. I just—” Hermione struggles to explain her circumstance, wiping her red face with the back of her hand. “It hurts to recall. I don’t want to keep going back to the same path.”

They leave their conversation there as dinner finally turns in, and that is that. Hermione had chosen her path—her _fate._ Demons haunt her, ghosts follow after her shadow, and the past is a hovering cloud above her head. It is the fate that she will have to bear.

But _no one_ will touch her and the fate she will bring upon the people.

_Not yet._

**...0O0O0O0O0O0...**

His hair was always combed and slicked to the proper style, and though natural errant curls sometimes broke their way through, it was natural enough to be believed _beautiful_. He tried his best, first of all, every morning to smell good as well, for he had no products to keep himself fancy and enticing, though it was his features alone that captured many. He would stretch at the crack of dawn, shake off the lingering exhaustion at the edge of his eyes from insomnia when he felt empty, filling his days with his usual schedule and the duties he had to complete. He fixed his green and silver tie to utter perfection, organised his books alphabetically, or sometimes, when he felt like it, according to size as well. He would straighten his robes with a few charms, polish his shoes, fix the cuffs of his dress shirt underneath the robes, and made sure he had brushed his teeth. Whenever he picked up his wand at the beginning of his day, he would twirl it in his hand for a moment before stowing it away in his robes for safety—like a weapon  to be pulled into war. He fixed his Prefect badge on the front of his robes all the time like an armour. His practised, warm smile was a mask to disarm.

In short, Tom Riddle had always tried his best to fit in; to become normal. As others say it, _to be one with the crowd._ He kept himself studious, cunning, competitive, understanding and ambitious. He always tried to be perfect. To be like others just to _fit in_. But he was just _too_ perfect to be left alone. Too powerful and bright, and resourceful and polite, even. Instead of teaching himself conformity, he taught himself to be an _example_ and it left him bereft in a sea of enemies. Of people who want him and of people jealous of him.

It was just the way he smiled with enough crinkling in his eyes to seem genuine that caught others’ attention. His tie was just _too_ perfect. His hair was just _too_ proper. His looks just enough to make a heart beat faster than crashing waves against the edge of a cliff side. He just seemed too polite and kind, that it made him stand out. But of course, he knew that he would stand out. He knew that people would like him; _it was his plan for them to do so_.

He convinced no one and everyone, of who he was and what his plans were. People just liked him _so_ much. They came to him for power; came for information, or even his looks. He was _likeable_ , not _lovable_.

He made himself seem so transparent on the outside, setting his priorities and his values before others. Treasured a future in which he alone could benefit. He was likeable, but he made it hard for everyone to _love_ him. Like leaving a door open for someone to walk into. An open, _free_ door. But he was _not_ a door to be walked into. He was a _trap_ , waiting to capture and to kill. Waiting to destroy and to crush all those who were foolish enough to believe he would just simply let _anyone_ walk into his life as if he was just another door to go through.

He hated everyone because they all loved, and he _couldn’t._ Because they could _feel_ and he just _couldn’t_ —and they found things in their lives worth _living_ for and he—he _....he only had himself._

He despised them. Because they _liked_ his front—his shield, but not his true nature. They didn’t even _know_ of it, and they could never love it, because all they did was love things that were fake and that which deceived them—and how could they love someone like him? So cold and harsh? He hated people for they loved images and ghosts—and he was _not any_ of those, and yet he couldn’t seem to erase the label that he was the “ _perfect example”_ of what many people could like, but _not_ have. _Not need nor deserve._

And yet—he had _tried_ his best to become like everyone. He tried to erase the fact he was an orphan and unwanted; he made himself look like them everyday, act like them, treat others like them, and even _learn_ their customs. Yet, he was _too_ much like them, they were put off. _Like he was a threat_. And to reiterate, he had _tried_ to be like them, yet he was still _not loved._ And the most kind person—the most understanding, and loving, and protecting, they say— _Dumbledore_ —had not loved him the same way others did.

And if this man could not accept him, who would in the world?

Tom wanted an opportunity to bring out the ugliest of society. To use their views and their powers against them to just see how much they could destroy each other when their masks fell and when the time came _true chaos and tragedy_ fell upon them. He wanted _someone_ —everyone to see who he really was beneath. He wanted to show the world that if you even _tried_ to kill him, he wouldn’t die.

His father wanted him dead, and his mother had died giving birth to him, and she left him in the hands of people who hurt him and drove him to the edge of insanity— _he had tried to kill himself once_ —and now, even here, obstacles stood in his way.

But he does not stop.

He will _never_ stop until things go his way.

If the world had deprived him of so much, then he would take everything that they took away from him.

But for now, at least, he would enjoy his time in the pleasure of  knowledge.

Now, reality for him was in a state of calm, as his long pianist hands that had coveted for power danced over spines of several books, fitted in a line to their alphabetical order under a predestined label. His fingers brushed dust, but he took pleasure in brushing the dust away, like slipping a veil off of a hidden prize. _Darkness_ covered him around the air; accompanying him like his shadow, stuck to his feet, moving when his hand moved and shifting where his eyes followed. This darkness always went by unperceived, but could only be felt if their magic was strong enough. He was darkness hidden in plain sight.

He took a tome off of the tall shelf, magically returning other books he had slipped off without any words. He passed by a few tables and students, searching for a place of solace. His jaw ticked when whispers followed him whenever he looked over tables and saw both girls and boys eyeing him. Attention was nice, but having people watch over you all the time was disconcerting. To be left with no time of privacy to be yourself.

 He sighed under his breath, turning around seamlessly and _unknowingly_ flourishing his robes in a billow. Libraries were sometimes _not_ _quiet enough_ to silence the populace that followed his being like a relentless shadow. There were always many who used his escape as a chatting room for gossip and unspeakable acts, and though Tom had the authority to silence them enough, it would work in the exact opposite way.

_But it wasn’t exactly_ their _fault that they took notice of him. No matter how broken and cold Tom Riddle seemed to be, he was just_ that _amazing to be spoken of. All the things he had accomplished is truly, and utterly, his own doing._

His feet brought him to a corner of the library, untouched by both soul and spirit. His nearly silent footfalls lead him down the narrow bookshelves blockading the nook like a trench, void of moving eyes. The dark boy took his place, holding the tome in front of him as he sat down, slouching ever so slightly when his back eased. It had been a long time until he heard another set of feet approaching his table, and mentally, he hissed curses in his head.

“Riddle,” a girl called, and Tom had long straightened himself in his seat before the raven haired girl could see him in his state of imperfection. Smiling politely, though in a rather bothered manner, Tom looked up at the Head Girl, closing the book with his hands and forcing himself to give her his undivided attention. His hands were rather folded tightly in the grip of his borrowed book, shoulders tense enough.

“Ah, Minerva,” Tom called back, charmingly looking up at her in which her eyes softened slightly, but not entirely. His darkness went nearly unperceived by the young witch. “Lovely to see you. What do you seem to be searching me for?”

“Nothing in particular,  I just wanted to tell you about the _Red Girl_ ,” Minerva told him, and Tom, though it was an unexpected topic, he _did_ quite get interested in it, though not completely, because of his utter devotion to his prowess in _knowledge_ , rather than a petty rumour weeks ago. _Even though that rumour was most—in_ all _aspects—true._

The _Red Girl_ was the girl that had been rushed into the Hospital Wing in a frenzy a few weeks ago, covered in either her own blood, or someone else’s. She hadn’t looked so responsive at all—portraits whispering she was dead in the arms of the Gameskeeper. Tom hadn’t seen the girl at all, excluding all the small glimpses of her shadows behind curtains that obscured her end of the Hospital Wing every once in awhile he would need to send a lower year or one of his classmates in for treatment for their injuries. The last few weeks had been busy for Madam Balker whenever she tended to the _Red Girl—_ injuries too obscure to completely mend and banish forgotten magic, bones too brittle and weak to lift up of, and her magic too unstable within her body to wake her up. For the last few weeks, she was alive, yet not waking.

Tom found himself more often than not losing track of this rumour, once in awhile only hearing about it after the weeks that she had come. Yet, having rekindled forgotten whispers, Tom reignites the flame with a flicker of slight interest with his eyes, head inclined upwards to Minerva.

“Oh, really?” Tom instigates. “What about her?”

The other leader of the school and the queen lioness of her den sits down from across Tom, unknowing that _he_ is the actual predator in emerald green grass, obscured from sight and ready to unleash venom in times of his predator’s undoing. But now is not the time as he simply listens to her words, knowing that she (in this time, at least) was into the stranger gossips these days.

“I met her earlier in front of the Hospital Wing,” Minerva says, which prompts surprise to erupt on Tom’s face, unbidden. “You should’ve seen her Tom, she looked _terrible_ , the girl,” Minerva continues with a shake of her head. Tom raises his eyebrows at the wording, nearly asking—“ _did she look_ that _terrible?_ ”—in a sense of vanity and care.

Minerva widens her eyes and snorts silently in humour, shaking her head frantically, whispering her next words as Madam Pince paces down from just beyond the bookshelves, returning books and eyeing students. “Not _that_ kind of terrible, silly. She was pretty, though she looked like she was underfed, and she...when we walked down the hallways, she felt like—how do I say this?” Minerva regarded herself for a moment, and Tom, checking his watch, looks back up at Minerva.

“Just tell me what you think happened or what she looked like.”

“Alright,” she conceded with a demure tilt of her head, “you—back to that, when we were walking down the hallways. She felt _worlds away_ from me. She had that glean in her eye that looked like she had _something_ to do here. She had a slight limp, and she held herself as if she was going to fight.” For a moment, they stopped to contemplate her words, and Tom, with his initial thoughts of studying, had taken his thoughts for a moment as to _why_ he was here in the first place, before remembering the book in his hand and turning back to Minerva who speaks again.

“She also had that... _strange_ sense of magic. _Unstable_. And her eyes didn’t only talk about secrets. They _spoke_ , Tom—of darkness and what looked like... _death_. She—she wanted to know me, but she held herself back. Her name was— _sorry—is_ Hermione.”

Suddenly, the book he had been meaning to read suddenly felt _half-interesting,_ and that hadn’t _ever_ happened before. Tom never thought he would ever  be interested in some rather strange occurrence like _this_ , yet all of this had the signs for him to _really_ be intrigued by her. And _yes_ , indeed he was intrigued by her. An anomaly that popped out of a system of scheduled cycles. If whatever Minerva had said had been real—then he _wanted_ to know too, what this girl was like, just to satisfy this curiosity of his. It was nothing more than just fellow curiosity born from the snoopiness of his peers, and though he had bigger goals in mind, it wouldn’t hurt to see just _who_ popped out of the forest, bloody and scarred just like that.

_It wasn’t like she was some great change in his life. It was just a girl, from the woods, and that was it._

Then dinner came by before he knew it, and Minerva had gone to leave him by his narrow spot in the library to go help a small first year return his books. Staring down at the book in his hand halfheartedly, Tom magically returned it from where he had plucked it from, no words escaping his mouth like a silent threat of power and promises.

The journey to the Great Hall is short with each long step he takes, further from the path he had ever taken before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here's the beginning to everything. So what have you all thought? Should Hermione have changed her last name? What actions should she take to continue on to the future? 
> 
> Well, I don't know, and neither do you. You are all free to tell me your opinions on this chapter, even more so because I am very conscious of the way I have portrayed Tom Riddle, both through his actions and the narrative. I feel like his introduction, especially his small tedious actions lack his simple dark, enamour kind of vibe that he usually exudes. I am trying to implement that feel into his persona, while at the same time balancing that with the woes of teenage dilemma and his yearning for affection and his desolation from loneliness. 
> 
> But with that aside, feel free to drop your honest opinions, and please forgive me for any typos you might have seen. And with that, see you next time! 
> 
> To you, I bid adieu (wow cringe)!


	4. Intolerance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione Granger fights through her personal dilemma as she is bombarded with new friends, and a a few familiar faces that leave her thinking of the future war and the living dead. Now officially awake and thriving in the 1940's, she has to adapt quick to the people she will be meeting, and hearing of. And maybe, keeping away from the adversary may be much harder than what she initially thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any typos or grammatical errors that you can see! I'm so sorry that I've been missing for a few months after the third chapter (mostly because of school n crap), but here comes the fourth with vengeance! Now, anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter and please leave your opinions or comments, because I really appreciate them cause they motivate me to write more. XD Now on with the Disclaimer:
> 
> I do not own the characters and the very fantastical stuff you can find in this fan fiction, for they all belong to J.K. Rowling. However, the only thing that I own here is the plot because, the plot bunnies managed to take a hold of my head as their burrow. 
> 
> Now on with the story

**Chapter Four**

 

**_“_ ** _The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow  
but its own. **”**_

_  
—Thomas Campbell_

            “It appears that we are the tardy ones, Albus,” Headmaster Dippet speaks his always shaky voice to Albus, the words hovering over Hermione’s head, yet not entering her ears— _her mind shielded and unhearing_ —because she does _not_ listen. She does _not_ perceive.  There is outward peace in her countenance, apparent through her serene gaze and placated brows—yet inside, she is a _pandemonium_ , raging like a sea over her ship, bobbing in the waves that swallow her being and drowning her in an unperceived past. _In a past that should not happen._

Hermione looks to the large, double doors of the Great Hall, closed to the naked eye. But Hermione sees _children_ _running_ , dark cloaks chasing after them—firing spells, curses and hexes, _aimed_ at the running children, _aimed_ at their backs— _aimed at her_. She does not want to enter—does _not_ want to solidify this feeling of _loneliness_ and _powerlessness_ —wanting to abstain from this present.

Hermione acknowledges fully now just _where she is_ , letting the feeling sink in _deep_ that she is _indeed_ in the past; it is _now._

She is there— _here_ —breathing the air of the forgotten, panicking yet present—once existed, but _alive_ —and she _wants_ _to_ _forget_ the future of bloodshed and cruelty. The future of which she belongs to, where she makes her parents forget her, where she suffers along with her friends for their liberty and freedom. She is the _game changer_. She is their _fate._ But as the final piece to move the war in their favour— _as the final move for the end_ —she is subjected to the beginning—to _this_ _renewal_ of who she is. She is making who she is now in the past, and it only takes her _two steps_ into the Great Hall, walking back into a war to be present in enemy territory once more and to make her existence known. She is the fawn walking into the lone forest, into the sight of the wolves.

Hermione quivers, but she is not weak. She is strong in the faces of her adversity, and so, she strengthens herself, and the change of calming down her mind nearly to the point of a stupor where she does not feel her legs, her arms, or her face at all, is once again so abrupt for those present to see. She is stone and she does not _feel._ Her mind is complex, for when it knows and feels too much, she stops thinking in order to _function_.

This behaviour and defence catches the attention of both the wizened men by her side, and as Head of the school, Headmaster Dippet gives a vague instruction to Albus, which Hermione does not hear, but she ignores it all the same as she tries to shake off the clutches of the past evident within her wet lashes and her deep breaths that were her breaths of hope all the same when she had first felt hope in the future and had breathed it in desperately like precious air pulled from her gasps. Hermione moves to the side of the double doors for a moment, encouraging herself like a lioness trying to raise its frozen hackles. She does not even see Dumbledore enter the Great Hall briefly.

“Are you ready, Miss Granger?” Headmaster Dippet speaks in kind, his voice the grainy texture of aged wood, the richness of its once dark lacquer. Hermione looks to the old wizard, and she calms herself as she traces the lines on his face, connects each dark spot and each mole or freckle that is visible in her vision, glowing fiery orange from the lit sconces nearby. One by one, by each breath, the future slips away from her head, receding from the shores of her mind hidden by the high tides. She escapes the murky water of dark images and familiar voices, escaping that hole of pain and anguish and back into the agony of the present past.

She feels the ground beneath her limp feet first, then the stone wall behind the knuckles of her hands, until the curve of her back. She feels the tickle of her curly hair, swaying as she moves, entangling her lashes as she looks down to the heeled shoes she wore. Slowly, she came to herself, and the apparent struggle vanishes from her sight, receding back into the dark halls and whispering a goodbye, so silent, it goes unperceived.

She reminds herself that Fate is by her side, and that is all it takes for the witch to look up from her clenching hands.

Hermione Granger remembers that she is in another time, and she starts coming to her senses, still not wanting to yield to the pains of her heart. With a fire that burns bright in her chest, strengthened by the callouses on her hand and the place she had called home, thrumming with an abundance of magic, Hermione feels renewed. _She is ready_. Escaping from that mental hell and into the confines of reality, she doesn’t feel confident, but she feels _determined_ to face head on a past that had already gone. To see the people that had transcended before her time.

She breathes out one, finally shaky breath, and nods, a weak crumpled smile taped over her silent lips. “I am,” is her answer, and she jumps when the doors open only briefly, letting the noise of cutlery and voices invade the silence of empty halls, where two people enter into. First is Albus Dumbledore, and following after him is the previous Minerva McGonagall who seems surprised to see Hermione again, though the half strict, yet half care free look is on her face, friendly as always when need be.

“Ah, Miss McGonagall,” Headmaster Dippet addresses,  looking relieved and briefly slouching in exaggerated relief, before straightening himself once more. “Hermione dear over here will be joining the whole lot of you for dinner tonight. Albus and I, as you can see, appear to be late, so we have decided  to leave it up to you to escort her to the Ravenclaw  table as we both go to our own. It is not that big of a task, is it, dear?”

Expectantly, Minerva shakes her head with determination, a serious, though determined expression adopting her face as she accepts. “No, Headmaster Dippet, it’s not too much for me to handle. I will send her to the Ravenclaw table as you ask,” Minerva informs him cordially, turning to Hermione to offer her a friendly look as Albus and Headmaster Dippet nod in accomplishment. Hermione smiles back at Minerva, letting her breath go and steadying her heavily beating heart, though at this moment, she is questioning just _why_ Headmaster Dippet had tasked Minerva to escort her to the Ravenclaw table when she already _knew_ where it was. But looking up back to Minerva who gave Hermione a small nod, Hermione supposed this action had good intent.

For, after all, in the unwritten narrative, Headmaster Dippet had intended for Minerva to help Hermione calm down as she helped her send her to the Ravenclaw table. As Headmaster, he watched over his students, and some things didn’t go by unnoticed when close to him.

“Is that all I shall do, Headmaster?” Minerva says one last time; the knife that slices through the thick slab of silence that permeates the air between the four of them, not unpleasant. Headmaster Dippet shakes his head, and Albus gives Minerva a brief, appraising look as just the small nod paid to Hermione calms the future witch down.

Hermione finds herself reassured as she follows after Headmaster Dippet and Albus Dumbledore into the suddenly silent Great Hall. The silence makes her heart beat furiously, each step a mechanic, difficult motion, as if she was sinking down into sand, wading through the grains. She breathes a bit more deeply, her fingers shaking as she sees millions of eyes before her, staring at her alone, unabashed curiosity not her own, sinking into her reverie and choking her like water, yet she _does not drown._

For a brief moment, several steps before she is at the Ravenclaw table, Hermione feels the comforting hand of Minerva by her elbow, and Hermione glances to her, and their sharp eyes meet, the other uncertain, while the other reassuring. Hermione exhales, letting all uncertainties flow out of her mind, before she smiles briefly, and half limps the whole way to the table that nested all the eagles.

“I’ll leave you here, now, Hermione,” Minerva says, smiling in kind, before walking back to the Gryffindor table, having finished her small task with her head held tall, her fellow lions immediately bombarding her with questions regarding the new witch— _Hermione herself_.

 Hermione feels clarity and relief as she feels the seat beneath her, avoiding the eyes of those around her, though it is nearly futile in her attempt. Sound begins registering through the Halls once more, others in loud conversations, resuming previous topics, while others pursuing the new topic that had suddenly appeared in their midst.

Like the others, Hermione is prompted to eat, yet she does not _feel_ like it. Inside, she feels her stomach churning violently, battling with her heart to stay strong. One thing is on her mind as she looks up to briefly glimpse the tie of an unnamed Slytherin, before her eyes flicker back to her unappetising food. She presses her lips into a thin line, thumb and index finger playing with her silver cutlery as green reminds her of an adversary.

_Tom Riddle is here._

_Voldemort is here._

She does not dare to look at their table for a long time as she wills herself to consume at least half the amount of food she should take, after having been starved for months from being on the run. She _should_ be thankful for the delicious food. _Should_ be thankful for the chance of this life. But food tastes like ash in her mouth, like stale air and bitter cold. It does not feel real—being here, in the present past, eating, breathing, _being_ terrified. Hermione feels bereft in an ocean once more, not feeling, not conscious, but _alive,_ still the same. It is difficult for her to believe that she is in the past right now _._ But she does, and the dichotomy of her feelings is numbing; nauseating, even more so.  

But being stuck back in time, if anything, was more believable than the fact that _Hermione Granger had killed before_ , and thought it is a disconcerting fact, for the girl, it is a comforting thought _._ In a battlefield, spread with fire, stained with blood, _ruled by darkness._ It was hard to believe that she had murdered, and it was even more harder to believe that she was _alive_. But she was a warrior— _a soldier_ —ready to fight and to sacrifice— _to burn her innocence into ashes, tasting like the food in her mouth._

 As she ate, this feeling loomed upon her being, a feeling so profound and stale, yet anxious— _paranoia_. She remembered the embrace of such a feeling, played on psychologically by her own mind. She was haunted by it when she had been stuck in a forest, with Harry alone after Ron had left them. The betrayal only left vulnerability in its place, brought all caution with it. Without a third defence, she had been afraid— _frightened to even leave Harry behind, too uncertain to even think of possibilities to live_. Sleepless nights left to tired days, and some days left full worries and nightmares to reign supreme over the majority of waking hours. Paranoia left Hermione feeling sceptical and uncertain, always unlike her real persona that was not blinded by what was before her.

She grasps the spoon in her right hand tighter, pads of her fingers turning white and red.

But what she felt right now was just the same back then, stuck in a darkness with Harry, afraid to move or breathe, because it might just call the Death Eaters to the light. She feels watched. _Feels alone, and still worlds away._ The spoonful of dinner slowly falls back down onto her plate, and before she feels bile up her throat, she breathes in and exhales away only half her worries, the remnants of which were sealed into the tremble of her hands and the paleness of her lips, carried along by her sunken eyes. Air is suddenly hard to breathe, her clothes too hot to wear, eyes too focused to look beyond blurs of colour.

A tap on her shoulder makes her snap her head to the person violently, her hand nearly reaching to the holster of her wand, hidden beneath her sleeve. The rapid motion alerts those around her in alarm and bewilderment, but they do not suppose bad things yet about Hermione as the first party apologises. It is a boy who speaks.

“I-I’m so sorry,” he says, light brown hair falling into his eyes, shading blue irises that remind her so ruefully of Ron, the Weasley boy’s flaming red hair quickly surfacing to the front of her mind in a rush, that buries a hole deep into her heart, painfully wrenching its place into her body. She does not move any part of her face, but she can feel the pain burrow deep into her soul, unperceived by others.

When she had come here, Hermione expected suffering throughout her stay. Expected hysteria, uncontrollable anger, revenge, redemption, _hope_. Yet, all she felt now was _longing_. She wanted to be back home—but that was gone too. She missed it. _Longed for it._ But the magnitude of it— _it was not what she expected_ —and she breathed in the pain, savouring the feeling deep into her lungs to _remember_ , not to forget, in order to bear with the next pain of longing and waiting. _Yet, it still hurt, nonetheless._

Remembering her promise to herself to be strong, Hermione ducked her head down in shame, the tips of her ears going red in embarrassment of her display of her reflexes. “No, it’s alright,” she shook her head, letting her hackles down. “ _I_ should be the one to apologise. I was not in my right state of mind for a moment.” Hermione had told him that honestly, but perhaps, that was _not_ the right thing to say, for there was a brief flash of worry and hesitance that morphed into his eyes, bringing to life memories of Ron— _which she dashed away just as quickly_ —and making Hermione regret her words.

She thought he would pull away from her for a moment, join back his group of friends that were eyeing the two of them apprehensively with doubts present in their eyes and certain in their distance. Hermione had expected violence, caution, _danger_ —so unlike the environment of a child—that the moment the boy her age offered her a goblet of water, simply out of the act of compassion and worry—she, for a moment of clarity, finally remembered that Hogwarts was a place for _children_. It was a place to learn, to thrive, and to live. A place where children laughed at the ends of classes, lounged around during break, and told each other stories at night. A place where they stressed over feeble things like tests and exams, passed assignments days or a week after; gave chocolates and letters to your valentines; asked a fellow mate for a date.

She had not remembered that fact in a long time— _or maybe imagined it, if at all._

In the future, she had lived for so long in the darkness, it gave birth to a new world—to a new age, that _these_ people, perhaps, were not entirely acquainted to. Here, Hermione felt disappointment and sadness at the fact that _war_ had changed her so much, had changed how she had seen others her age, that _she_ had been the one to see the ugliest parts of the world. Ugliness that went unperceived—ugliness that wouldn’t exist yet—ugliness which tainted even _her_. She was angry at the world.

She wondered, for a moment in time, that if Tom Riddle had been shown another side of the world— _the love and the compassion; one where he had not been tainted by its taunts and actions—_ then maybe, would he have changed the way he had seen life?

_His gaze, so vacant and void of a spark lit by friendships, and love, given weight and heaviness by trials, yet strengthened through these struggles. His gaze could’ve changed. Life wasn’t about death. It was living through it._

_But he had not seen that side for himself, had he?_

Hermione gazed at the goblet of water in the boy’s hands as he said, “You appeared paler than Merlin earlier. Perhaps, you can calm down for a bit. Here.” He pushed the goblet into her hands, the cool steel settling into her palm and anchoring her soul down onto earth—and she stared at the water for a moment, stared at the reflection—stared at the steel beneath. And she looked up at the boy, a resolution born within her earlier vacant gaze, filled with hope and strength. Something that only certain people who have been searching had seen.

This future ( _past_ ) was a chance to change her fate, and she _didn’t_ have to fight. She didn’t have to fight to make a change, but all she had to do right now— _at this very moment_ —was act her age to fit in. Regain her humanity, no matter how hard that sounded. _But maybe_ , it was the acknowledgement that she had _lost_ her humanity, that made her realise it would be impossible to gain it back—because she was an anomaly right now, in the face of constants—a monster born from war, terrified and afraid. _But she could be better from now on._

She thanked the boy meekly, before taking a fresh sip from her water, not realising how parched her throat had been. Not realising that she had always taken people’s kindness and worry for granted before, until now, in the face of such unfamiliar hospitality. It was sweet on her tongue, warm like the kiss of the sun and heavy on her conscience; salty like the tears in her eyes, abstained by her closed lids.

Out of anything, she was the darkest thing to have come into this castle in this very time and existence. Out of anything, she was the _change_ —the _difference_. She couldn’t act or plan now out of lack of strength, but eventually, she _should_ plan, and Hermione promised herself that she wouldn’t make a mistake. Make a lack of calculation that might change the future ahead of her. She couldn’t even be sure if she could ever go back to that ever changing present— _or future_. She wouldn’t be sure, if after this, everything would be the same.

She just _hoped_ she would see their faces again, and at the thought of this, her hand trembled.

Hermione smiled at the boy who grinned at her, far more friendlier than the lot he had on the other side of the table who were eyeing her, quite intrigued and a bit suspicious. His smile was contagious and warm, like the bear brush of a hand of a friend, a comforting arm around their shoulders. It was warm; not entirely familiar. She had yearned too see that kind of smile back in the war, serving as a support or reassurance.

_Longing for it_ , Hermione had dubbed.

“Clarence Valden,” the boy introduced himself, his brows raising a bit as he outstretched his surprisingly long hand for her to grasp. Taking his hand in hers, feeling the warmth of his echo into her palm, and feeling her magic thrum across her body and slightly shock the boy, Hermione smiled. She noticed the small differences that set the boy apart from Ron now, and the pandemonium in her head lessened to a dull ring of the past, letting rationality take its dominant place. Hermione opened her mouth to introduce herself.

“Hermione—” a _cling, cling_ resounded from the front of the Great Hall from the staff table, where Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore stood, bony fingers grasping a goblet that he had chimed with a silver tea spoon. With her words and attention pulled away from her new acquaintance, silence ensued across the Hall, seeming to suck the attention of every living thing and up into the eyes of the Deputy Headmaster. Reverence seemed to come stronger here in the 40’s, unlike the 90’s where many more seemed to take a few more seconds to talk before they were willing to even shut their mouths.

Something felt _wrong_ within Hermione, as she stared at Albus, who was staring at her. She had a feeling that swirled and constricted her chest, letting her sea of clarity startle into ferocious waves, slamming into her heart like the face of a cliff. She stared for a hard moment at Dumbledore’s robes, willing herself to not overthink. _Midnight blue patterned with glowing yellow stars_.

She took her eyes up into Dumbledore’s own pair of twinkling eyes, and for a moment in time— _in that time_ —she froze, as if she could feel the world shift and break and remould itself back into Pangaea to let the world finally feel how much her chest swirled with this volcanic emotion.

Such a molten rage mixed with uncertainty, dripping from her skin like melted rubies, stuck to every pore. She stared at Professor Dumbledore, fists clenching, _knowing that gleaming eye_ , yet not saying a word, letting _him_ handle things as of the moment, to maybe align a path she had not chosen— _one which he had decided himself._

He had planned to make this move at the most crucial part of the night where she _couldn’t_ even say anything.

She closed her eyes to calm her magic down. Dumbledore spoke.

“As all of you are already aware tonight,” he announced, “we have a new addition to our populace. Hermione _Celare_ —” _Granger! It was supposed to be Granger!—_ “ will be joining us for the rest of year. She may have had an— ah, _unfortunate_ arrival, but that is of no consequence. May we all welcome her here, as she definitely _does_  come from here—but you see, _years_ away from now. Hermione Celare is a time traveller, you see, who has accidentally travelled back in time. So may we all give her a warm welcome— _ahem_ , back home.”

He drew his hands together, in a short applause as he nodded for her to stand. Her knees trembled with the weight of astonished looks as she forced her spine to straighten out. She blinked for a few moments, not knowing _what_ to think, desperately clawing answers or plans in her mind— _throttle Dumbledore in his sleep!_ — _or run away as far as you can!_ —because she had not told him to change her last name. The weight of this new life—this _fake countenance_ —settled into her every pore, and before she could break her facade, she nodded in greeting to the others around her—not even registering the fact that Dumbledore alone was the only person who seemed to applaud, save for a few others. Then, she hastily sat back down, closing her eyes as the vertigo hit her, tilting her thoughts to the side as a sickness that loomed upon her stomach welled up into her chest.

She took the goblet of water once more and drank from it like a fountain, soothing her worries.

She was Hermione Celare _now_. She couldn’t change that anymore.

But she couldn’t help but clench her hands for a moment, in sheer fury that took place in her beating heart, holding a small grudge against Dumbledore and his scheming mind that stirred pandemonium in the waters of her liquid thoughts, stirring tides, raising shipwrecks of the past. Of the things he had left behind in the future that she reflected upon _now_. Hermione was years into the past, but it was as if she was in the future, somewhere before Dumbledore had been a scheming wizard, turning a blind eye to others, too wallowed in his own distress.

_For the greater good._

She looked up from the goblet, and out of an unknown force, perhaps coincidence, as strong and uncommon as it may be, her eyes peered across seas of black robes; a sea of blue, and then to green, and there waiting for her was a dark, strange pair of eyes with no discernible light within them. A void, empty space of clarity and thought; the vacuum darkness that existed within the night sky, captured in the canvas of his eyes, with no stars. No light. They were put on the easel of his face, windows to a closed home.

_They were not red._

_But they were the same._

Her blood ran cold, but she couldn’t help the fear and adrenaline that thrummed through her veins, the venom that lied there.

Hermione looked away from a boy she had not met, with eyes who will—who _would’ve_ witnessed her death.

Instead, she focused on Dumbledore, and thought about what the future would entail with the knowledge of her time travel known to many. She assumed her plan there.

 

 

**...0O0O0O0O0O0...**

All their following eyes were a confinement—fixated on her being, always seeking out—all confined within their areas of the Great Hall. It loomed over her like tall shadows, and Hermione couldn’t quite stop thinking about what her _death_ had felt like in the forest, feeling as if a hundred eyes were on her, cheering on her last breath to escape her lungs. It all felt the same— _like a nightmare_ —and it left her grasping for the last straws of her sanity as she gripped with herself about what to do next. But the kind boy next to her proved to be a small haven for an escape, because her mind was the battlefield she had to tread through always, before her body was the vessel she made as their imminent target. _And yes, she had once been a target, painted red as the Gryffindor Insignia, one of the posters for reckless bravery and perseverance for the greater good._

Along the way of her journey, after letting go of her parents, Hermione might’ve realised that she was tired sick of running away, of fighting, and of always maintaining her friends in their capable mental state. After going through all of that— _she had a limit_ , her _own_ capacity. But she never drew the line, because the world itself was on the brink, and she had no choice but to push herself until she was a soldier, a murderer, and now, _the second chance._ She never took the time to realise she was just a _child_ —a _teenager_.

She planned to stay on low profile, watch over Tom Riddle’s actions, follow the sequence of events mapped out in her head like the plot of a story, detailed within her mind, and to find out her own way of dealing with horcruxes. She would take no chance of coming close to Tom Riddle, _ever_ , because just a slight movement that she would make towards him, just a _slight_ meddle in his plans might trigger a different future—a _different possibility._ She wasn’t taking the chance, because the probabilities were too high, the questions so many in number, the consequences bigger than her future. Her plan _should_ coincide with her future, to serve as a facet of information to put an end to the war that wreaked havoc in the _should-be_ present, _if_ it would even happen at all.

But she had to steel herself—strengthen her resolve over and over again until the mere glimpse of her enemy won’t hopefully end with a distracting flashback of blood and gore in her head. She demanded herself to become the stoic, indifferent soldier she had been when she had mercilessly thundered through the brunt of the war, cursed and jinxed Death Eaters to the point their crippled bodies never even felt the flush of blood in their veins, because they would soon turn into rotting bags of flesh.

Between Harry, Ron, and her, Hermione herself was not in the least bit regretful that she had resorted to darker means, because eventually, one of them _had_ to, but the blunt hit of using dark magic was a heavy blow for the consciences of both Harry and Ron, and they were not mentally and emotionally strong enough for those merciless spells, not even physically strong enough to handle the repercussions thereafter.

And Clarence—Clarence Valden—this boy reminded her so much that she was _not_ supposed to be a soldier— _not_ supposed to use her wand to kill grown men, _not_ supposed to be an early healer packed with experiences of healing her friends from fatal wounds. She was _not_ supposed to be a girl with scars across her fragile humanity, not supposed to be a witch that held the chance of _every_ predecessor in her midst, to secure them a brighter future.

Clarence Valden reminded Hermione Granger that she was just a girl, and that her past— _the future she had been in_ —would not exist yet.

It made her realise she was still strong, to survive through all those adversaries and still come through with a stronger head, and a healed body, albeit after _weeks_ of recovery. It reminded her that she was _Hermione Jean—supposed to be Head Girl—Granger_. That she was a student, superior in skill sets not many have ventured into, but which she had gained in her mere few years in Hogwarts. So, Hermione would bring salvation with a bang; but first, she had to bring salvation to herself. And although she promised herself that she would keep herself from _everyone_ in this timeline, to suffer in her own knowledge of the future alone, fate had made it hard just right after.

To put it simply, Clarence Valden became her friend.

Her Gryffindor bravery—the proud mane of a lion she used to wear like a headpiece—became the hidden base beneath her feather exterior which acted as one of her defences. She took residence inside the nest of the eagles, where she felt home was a lot more closer, yet farther away more than ever within her grasp, trickling through like water leaving wetness on her hands. The glimpse of the Ravenclaw Common Room had resurrected dormant emotions within her chest, welling inside of her so fast, that her breath came in a gasp trapped within her throat, twisted into a sick emotion of nostalgia, melancholy, dread, and devastation. Everything looked so _normal_ , that it felt so _wrong_. It had only been a few waking hours for her mind to adapt to the sudden changes of being from the _“war torn future”_ to the _“beginning of said-ending”_ and  it already felt so hard to keep her quivering emotions within herself.

It was only natural that her mind shut down whatever was left with her warring emotions, as she had always done when immense stress weighed down her entire being.

The Ravenclaws that had come inside the room before her, even though they had been quiet, somehow became even more silent with her entry, trailing behind Clarence, who joined one of his friends near the fire place. If it were possible, all eyes seemed to train on Hermione, and despite herself, she felt like she could hear the collective ceasing of breaths that awaited her presence. The magic inside of her core thrummed nervously, her chest constricting around her heart, imitating the way she froze once inside the Forbidden forest. Hermione locked her jaw, keeping her gaze blank from any certain emotion as she stepped into the room, not really _fearing_ the ravenclaws— _for she had felt much worse._ She just _hated_ the anticipation for their actions.

But this was nothing compared to stepping into a castle full of bleeding, scared children waiting for Harry, Ron, and her. Their salvation. Their expectations for them were far worse than the underlying questions in the Ravenclaws’ gazes.

            “Hermione!” Clarence called from across the room, breaking a sheet of tension that had locked itself within the confines of the airy room. The boy who had called her waved his hand, smiling with such kind softness, it reminded Hermione of Luna Lovegood. The comparison coiled around her throat and snatched nearly all present regard of her stone mask, but it left just as fast as it came. Hermione bolstered through the feeling. “Here, you should sit,” Clarence interfered with her thoughts, fortunately.

Moving her slightly better leg first, she held her back straight and her head as high as it should, not feeling mighty, but more reserved. The wand holstered on her forearm hummed along with her thrumming magical core like a reassurance, and as she sat down, Hermione briefly remembered that fate would help her through her trials, backing up her magical existence, but not entirely in conscience.  Hermione reverently smiled at Clarence, but not exactly open to others either.

She was guarded, as she should be.

“These are my friends, Hermione,” Clarence began, and in that span of a moment, Hermione felt so entirely lost as Clarence introduced his friends. But taking up her part in the past, she slowly, reverently, let go of her present worries and the thoughts of her fears and her past receded into the back of her reverie. She plotted herself into the past, and with a strengthened heart, she listened. That was all she could do to stop herself from thinking.

“This is Finn Fawley,” he pointed first to a boy with dark hair and half open eyes, seeming as if he could sleep at any moment. Hermione recognised the name, but thinking better of her rising thoughts, she gave him a small, shy smile and waved, and he was polite enough to return it with a nod.

“Augusta Rookwood.” The sternness of the woman, with bright eyes and a sharp wit was indulgent of, Hermione seemed to recognise, as Neville’s grandmother. Her hair was a shade brighter than Neville’s, and she had a height that other girls would seem envious of. Hermione briefly greeted her, and she back. Both seemed to have respect for each other, but not trust. Not yet.

“Dilim Shafiq.” Hermione had not heard of him in the future, much less in her timeline as there was no present predecessor that seemed to appear in her year back then. But the boy, with dark skin, darker brown eyes and reminiscent brown hair, put Hermione in a slight unease. He held himself in high regard, with the way he stood tall and proud, with his nose turned up in the air. He was a pureblood—Hermione briefly remembered the name Shafiq mentioned in the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and it unnerved her, to have met an ancestor of a prominent name, before it disappeared in entirety. Her bias towards the Pure-Blooded was still present, but only _this time_ —Hermione set it aside for her appearance’s sake. Who knows what could’ve happened to the Shafiq’s before they had gone.

“Alappona Selwyn.” Alappona was quiet and shy, with staight, raven hair, and vibrant hazel eyes that bordered a reflective green and brown. For a moment, Hermione cursed her contempt for Pure-Blood genes to make features exaggeratedly prettier, but she pushed it down when the girl, a few inches taller than her, smiled kindly, and shook her hand with a cheery zing. The girl’s last name had made Hermione nervous, but it soon quelled down with Alappona’s behaviour. The awfully stark girl reminded Hermione, briefly, that not all of the Pure-Bloods have been bad. Surely, a wide misconception, spurred on by the bad history of the past, but it reminded Hermione so much of what Draco had done for them, of Ron, and others. But still, she couldn’t feel entirely bad for thinking badly of the girl, when many of the Pure-Bloods have gone to try and kill her before.

“Solis Lovegood.” The shock of sandy blonde hair came into view, and the floating daze of the gangling, tall boy shocked Hermione with the suddenness—an imitation so alike Luna’s—it stole her breath away in an audible gasp, brought with it a thin sheet of tears to her eyes, as the last time she saw Luna was in a battlefield, left to run and to defend herself, though the girl was capable enough. The boy’s eyes, bluer than Luna’s grey, met Hermione’s warm brown, and like clarity, Hermione sucked in a breath. Cold water spread down her back in her nervousness, as her hairs stood on end. The boy’s thin lips stretched to a meek smile, wavy hair hiding his left temple.

“Hello, friend. I say, do you recognise me from somewhere?” He asked in kind and innocent curiosity, and it created a thin sheet of silence in the room, as many onlookers waited in bated breath to hear the time traveller’s answer. Hermione searched in her head, for the vaguest answer of all, and she realised with a spark of hope and slight humour, that she could make anything vague coming from her mouth, as if she was Luna herself. She was a mystery to them—wasn’t afraid to be one. And into Luna’s ancestor’s face, Hermione smiled with genuine emotion, wiping a bit of her eyes from the shock which resonated within others.

It reminded them that she was a person who had met others—not a stranger meeting _new_ people. She had met them through word before. Travelled through decades of forgotten time and dusty relics, archived events, and unavoidable disasters.

Fortunately, this was not one.

“Yes, I do. I recognise a best friend,” Hermione answered, and Solis brightened like his name, a close eyed smile forming on his face as he bounced, plopping down next to Clarence in an enthusiastic heap. Dilim snorted, Alappona laughed with Solis, and Augusta just seemed exasperated. Finn appeared as if he was on his book, squinting, though in actuality, he was already sleeping.

 Tension lessened with Solis’s bright mood, though others were still sceptical, but at ease. Hermione soon smiled with them, and the pain of having that smile on her face reminded her that she had not smiled like this in awhile. Guilt ate away at her heart for being in the safety a of a war that was supposed to happen in the future. But she strengthened herself, promising to use and bide this time to become stronger.

Clarence exclaimed in surprise. “You still haven’t met Aliena yet! Bollocks, she’s not here though.” He frowned in displeasure, and Augusta shook her head at him. Hermione only listened on with curiosity as Clarence elaborated who this Aliena person was, fulfilling Hermione briefly. Her  promise of not making friends in this time seemed to be impossible from this point, when Hermione knew that she thrived in connections and friendship, and it also seemed quite impossible to steer away from these people.

Hermione still felt, in her heart, she needed connections to distract herself from her own darkened mind. But she couldn’t help but feel displeasure in how she immediately broke her own promise of not making connections with people in this time. But without any further incentives to her thoughts, she listened on to Clarence who prattled on about Aliena.  

“Aliena Travers is the female Ravenclaw Prefect— _smartest_ witch I’ve ever met,”  he proclaimed with no shame at all, holding the proclamation quite high, with a heavy, determined look that bore no questions. But if anything,  Hermione would not hold back to ask any questions, especially if this ‘ _Aliena_ ’ was to be claimed the ‘ _smartest witch_ ’ Clarence has ever met. Her Gryffindor pride couldn’t take it without even knowing— _even if_  this fact was known for years now in her own time.

“And why do you say that, Clarence?” Hermione queried him, the posing question seeming to be out of curiosity, which, _was_ half true, though the other part of her was very challenging, not wishing to yield to another competitor for that title, even if that competitor was _decades_ ago.

“She can catch up with one of the _brightest_ boys in school!” Dilim sliced into their conversation, taking his piece, like an ant scouring for crumbs in a conversation But his words were accompanied with a mocking snort, looking at Hermione with an exasperated gaze. “She’s the smartest witch apparently, because she can take on the smartest wizard— _Riddle_. What a high and mighty prat.” The well-heard defacement of Riddle brought a many great  numbers of the girls in the Ravenclaw  Common Room to gasp in outrage, their offended countenances sending Dilim dark looks. Dilim rolled his eyes at them. Besides, he was used to getting dark real fast (no pun intended).

But the name momentarily shut down Hermione’s conscious mind, taking her back to glimpses of Harry dying, and making her remember the fact that her future murderer was in _this_ castle, right at this moment, walking free with no magical crime held up against his head. Hermione’s heart drops deep below into the caverns of her chest, giving a painful, echoing beat. But she recovers immediately, not letting the new friends she has catch on to how she recognised Tom Riddle.

Before the night could stretch on any further, Hermione excused herself from all of their presence, escaping others who tried to ask about the future on her way. Hermione kept going up the Ravenclaw tower to the girl’s dorms, and she found that she would be rooming with other sixth years, which was a relief since most of the sixth year girls were Alappona, Aliena, and Augusta.

But, in that moment of a battling silence in the quiet, new room, Hermione could not even take in the beauty of the Ravenclaw dorms, with her heart beating too fast—the thoughts in her head jumbling mile a minute as a familiar darkness began to swallow her mind. The draughts of peace and other vials in her pocket lay useless, simply an accessory forgotten within her clothes as she-as she— _she doesn’t know what she is doing_.

The time traveller just sits on the empty bed laid for her, and like the bed, she is cold, empty, waiting to be filled, as her heart shakes erratically in her broken chest. A numb sting of pain lingers at her once broken ribs, and her fingers shake as if she was stuck in a tundra, shivering, waiting to grasp her bearings. But she does _not_ hold onto anything, too afraid to even think of how she could surpass the thoughts of Tom Riddle—of a threat like him. She fingers the protrusion of her wand against her sleeve, taking big, deep breaths as she also fingers her lace cuffs, loosening the already loose threads of her sanity as the dim lit room brings to life memories of the dead.

Hermione slowly lulls herself into a stupor and stops herself from fully functioning in order to work, seeking out the rational part of her that takes the brunt of these episodes. It won’t take long for Hermione to break this way, repeatedly shutting out her emotions and locking them away deep down in a cavern of her weaknesses, that they do not see proper light in the face of other people.

_And they never will_.

_She won’t let them_.

“ _Just have faith in yourself_ ,” is the one thing she hears from a formless entity living within her soul. Hermione relishes the strong voice that assures her head from breaking itself apart. She builds back her mask, tightening her shaky hands and stopping their assault of her lace cuffs. Just in time to lie down on the bed and fall asleep to planning her future moves as someone walks through the open door.

 


	5. Watershed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night of terror comes, looming above Hermione Celare's head like a chandelier, a reminder of her guide and imminent danger. She decides to tackle more of her present mysteries, just as Tom Riddle decides to tackle his own, in a manner only he knows how. Then something else comes along for the both of them, something which both unsettles them more than it should. But it was probably for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys forgive me for the long wait, but I think you guys already get my updating patterns, far in between each chapter, which is torture for you guys, so I'm sorry. But there is no direct Tom and Hermione interaction yet. 
> 
> You have to wait for that one. ;)
> 
> But anyways, go ahead and enjoy this chapter and here's the disclaimer: I'm not great enough to be able to make what J.K. Rowling has.
> 
> now go, off to read and suffer another cliffhanger!

 

**Chapter 5**

**“** _From childhood’s hour I have not been_  
As others were—I have not seen   
As others saw—I could not bring   
My passions from a common spring—   
From the same source I have not taken   
My sorrow—I could not awaken   
My heart to joy at the same tone—   
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—   
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn   
Of a most stormy life—was drawn   
From ev’ry depth of good and ill   
The mystery which binds me still—   
From the torrent, or the fountain—   
From the red cliff of the mountain—   
From the sun that ’round me roll’d   
In its autumn tint of gold—   
From the lightning in the sky   
As it pass’d me flying by—   
From the thunder, and the storm—   
And the cloud that took the form   
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)   
Of a demon in my view— **”**

— **Alone** , _by Edgar Allan Poe_

            _Like flashes of lightning across streaking skies,  faces surfaced so fast, swift in its ascent into her eyesight, facial  features too shadowed by darkness to be discerned. Eyes wide, eyes closed; noses long, some not even_ there _; mouths clenched in pain, others screaming; and just one thing that made them all familiar was the fact that Hermione Granger recognised them all. They had all been met by the hand of death, their suffering prolonged  in their participation  of the war, but their deaths so fast, the causes were unknown._

 _The ground was wet—it was_ raining _—and she saw something glowing bright in her peripheral vision. She looked away from the corpses of her friends, forgotten on the ground, as she looked towards the castle of Hogwarts, once thought to be beautiful, ancient, and strong, now burning endlessly into the dark clouds that professed of her pain and suffering, a testament and witness to the destruction of that night._

_Lightning  flashed again, and Hermione was met with loud, chilling cackles that sent her mind into a frisson of panic, the octaves of the deranged voice scraping down her nerves, tingling her spine and causing her heart to swell rapidly as tears came to her eyes like the pounding rain. Her scars itched suddenly, too painful to bear. If she had thought she was standing up from the ground, she was writhing on the wet soil now, mud and twigs clumping up in her hair and her clothes; flesh meeting hard rock and stone._

_Something bony poked into her back, and she was already screaming before the word pierced through her reverie and began igniting her body in flames and pierced her flesh with heated knives. “_ Crucio! _” The spell bled into her body, and she was enveloped in an aggressive, cocoon of magic that brought back painful sensations onto her body. Hermione screamed and cried out, tears escaping her eyes faster than the rain, palms bloody from scratching hard for escape. She hadn’t known the cackling continued._

 _“_ How does it feel to be in the mud, _mudblood_?! _” Bellatrix Lestrange laughed,  a  feral and insane look gleaning into her eyes, as she pushed Hermione’s head down onto the mud with the heel of her shoe, taking pleasure in the sight of seeing the inferior writhe and wail beneath her. Hermione could only cry more as Bellatrix screeched again and again “_ Cruciocruciocruciocruciocruciocrucio—!” _Turning into a mantra that stuck to Hermione’s head, burning her nerve endings like being cast into a  fire and being seared by hot, iron rods._

_Lightning flashed again, and the pressure above Hermione’s head disappeared, and the wet ground suddenly became the forest floor, and heat engulfed her body, nipping at her finger tips. Hermione opened her eyes, and she saw sweet, emerald green, vacant and empty of life—like the green of slytherin robes, the colour of prairie grass; the green sheen of a wine bottle, or the green of tree leaves. Hermione whimpered, noticing that the whole Forbidden Forest was lit on fire, and it was only a matter of time that she would be burnt herself._

_She pressed her head to Harry’s unbreathing, unbeating chest, now an empty cavern for a dead heart. “_ Wake up, Harry... _please_ ,” _she pleaded with his corpse, her tears flowing relentlessly. But movement beneath her made her heart skip a beat and stopped her breath in her throat. She looked up into the eyes of Harry—_ and she saw red flames, like fire burning the forest, like blood running down a fresh wound; red like neon lights at a bar; red like rear lights; red like the sunset, _angry and empty._

 _“_ You—!” _Voldemort hissed, before Hermione was engulfed in red flames, and hands were grasping her all around, shaking her body vigorously and holding her by the jaw, encircling her face. Hermione opened her eyes, and amongst the bright flames, she saw fate, still formless and faceless after all this time._

 _“_ Do not forget the probability of future destruction, Hermione. They depend on you—plan **_wisely_ ,** _” is all Fate says, before—_

Hermione bolts upright from her bed, into warm hands that hold her safely, acting as her haven as she cries, and simply just _cries_ to ease the pain that lingers across her whole body, specifically on her head and her ribs, hands shaking as she grasps the nightgown of the person soothing her. Her chest keeps rising and falling, too fast to be normal, as everyone in the room feels the destructive magic swirling in the air that came from Hermione’s weeping form, hunched over and slowly gaining back her rationality.

“Hermione—Hermione? A-Are you alright now? Hermione, please...” _Raven hair. Hazel eyes._ Alappona.

Hermione wiped away her tears, feeling shame and fear eating away at her heart, for being so foolish as to expose her war torn mind like this in front of the others so blatantly, with no silencing charms or muffling charms placed around her bed. In the corner of her tear filled eyes, Hermione could see Augusta, watching her like a hawk, though she was far more worried than she looked. A new person was at the other end of the room, in her own bed opposite Hermione’s.

Hermione shook her head, apologising to Alappona, “I’m so sorry— _I’m_ _sorry_. I-I—I shouldn’t have let you seen that, please forget about it!” Hermione escaped Alappona’s grasp, evading her as much as she could. She didn’t want to be touched— _refused_ to be touched, because of the phantom prints of hands, of the war, the darkness that lingered just beyond that grasp of reality; hands that felt like the weak fingers of her comrades, grasping her arms for desperation—for _help_ —to live longer, _not_ die young, as their last breath escapes them in the final moment of struggle.

Their hands laid on  her body, forever imprinted.

Even with her eyes open, she could still see Harry, and see other dead people, their voices too close for comfort, haunting after her and making her guilty more than she should be. The sea of knowledge inside of her mind was disturbed, relentless and hailing destruction, breaking the reverence of her once agile reactions. They mocked every step she took, trailing after her with no other intent but to _harm_.

Hermione shut herself inside of the bathroom of the dorms, and there, she stopped all root of her emotions, under the immense emotional stress pressed upon her being. She looked into the mirror, and looked past the ghost of a girl to see that she was still in her clothes from the night before. Hermione disregarded her tear stained face,  opting to school her features into a blank mask. She heard glass surfaces clinking in her grey skirt, and Hermione fished out the vials of potions that Madam Pom— _Balker_ had given to her yesterday.

Hermione took the draught of peace, and she drank the contents of the vial.

It began working, like she was becoming numb in the inside, her mind as cool as the morning air entering the highlands. It calms down the sea inside of her being, pulling down shipwrecks rising to the shore, the bubbles obfuscating her vision fading into a clarity of prussian blue, clear in her sight. She takes the plush, prussian blue towel she had been staring at, hanging by one of the hooks of the bathroom and she proceeded to angrily (as much as the draught of peace could allow it) take off her clothes to prepare for her first bath in a long time.

Hermione stared pointedly at some marks or bruises she saw on her body by the mirror, that had not healed yet, and she asked herself— _why had they not healed yet?_ The question leaves her head in a flurry as her hands brush the flesh up above her breasts, and she _feels t_ he raised clump of flesh, tendrils outstretched across the once clear expanse of her chest, pink and the result of the killing curse. Hermione pressed the palm of her right hand there— _feeling, confirming_ —and she feels her heartbeat  echo through the layers of her mortal body, reassuring and unnerving her at the same time. She feels dark magic, mingling equally with the light that resides within her, also faintly thrumming with something unknown.

Hermione supposes she knows this familiar, thrumming magic, an anomaly to her system and most likely a result of her encounter with Fate.

Hermione tries to grasp it, but like a breath in the morning, it fades along with her conflicting mind.

The future witch takes off a hand from her breast, feeling strangely serene and free from her anger now, as her finger tips trace her purple, ugly scar, running down from shoulder to hip, like a declaration of a colonised country, held like a flag on foreign soil—tracing it with a soft, foreign touch not expected from an experienced warrior. Hermione _detests_ such a thing—the scar, wishing that dark scar to be kept away—but not even Madam Pomfrey or any personnel  from St. Mungo’s could restore what could not be fixed. With a tormented sigh, that came out more relaxed than she thought, Hermione entered the bath for her first wash, finally in the 1940’s.

With the drain of the water, comes the receding of her thoughts.

Later, to Hermione, this makes her feel more uneasy.

 

**______________________________________**

Exiting the bathroom, feeling as if ice was tickling the ends of her limbs, Hermione calmly stepped back into the bedroom, noting that Alappona was braiding Augusta’s hair, whilst transfiguring a blue ribbon into her neat plait. The other girl—a new one who sat scrubbing her broom, looked up to Hermione first when she padded into the room. Hermione noticed she had a long, strong nose, slightly thin lips and misty grey eyes, roofed by faint eye brows, giving her eyes a wider look. Her hair was pin straight, and Hermione surmised that she might be Aliena Travers. With a slight tilt of her head, Hermione was surprised to note the fact that Aliena was a Quidditch player, though the position she took remained unknown to Hermione.

The air in the room was a bit tense, forbearing words that were whispered inside of closed mouths, locked from physical presence and cascading away in the shadows.  Those whispers wished to discuss about the terror that haunted Hermione when she woke up, and looking into Aliena’s clear eyes, it was apparent that they wished to talk about what was worrying her—what was Hermione’s nightmare. Although the air enunciated questions that flew over Hermione’s head, or rather, she chose to ignore the presence of the implied topic, Hermione did not expect Aliena to openly to speak to her first.

Or rather, she asked, “So, are you   _really_ from the future, Celare?”

That question took Hermione off kilter, though what  pushed her into that teetering edge was the reminder of her last name “ _Celare_ ”, which in a quite stupid notion, she believed her given surname sounded so much like “ _celery_ ”, which nearly sent her into a small giggle, but withholding that action. She questioned the bold and direct question Aliena had asked. In other cases, it would be considered quite rude to ask such a question quite blatantly, but Hermione knew it wasn’t _exactly_ a rude question, when her being a Time Traveller was a known fact, and the credibility of her being a time traveller was not yet confirmed. But still, it was out of common decorum and manner that Augusta and Alappona stopped what they were doing, gasped and turned around in their seats to send Aliena a scandalized and offended look.

“Aliena! Ask more nicely!” Augusta scolded, though Aliena simply shrugged, but after that Alappona and Augusta also seemed curious to Hermione’s answer.

But not exactly deterred, just mildly shocked, Hermione turned away from them, going to the trunk at the edge of her new bed. She searched for clothes in the trunk that Dumbledore had faintly informed her the other night would provide her with her necessities, and in that while, she answered them, though not looking as to guard her already blank expression. “It was what Dumbledore had announced yesterday, so I am afraid so.”

It was short, evasive, not exactly a  yes or no. But it answered them nonetheless. Without looking, though, Hermione could feel Aliena’s sharpened gaze, the rising questions that began to mount behind them— _suspicious and, unending_. Hermione does not trust Aliena as much as the others now, as Hermione could feel Aliena’s buzzing magic, hovering over her, once calm, but now _irritated_. After surviving with Harry and Ron for months, starving on low rations of food, saving as much energy and magic she had possible, meditating to keep her mind calm, her magic balanced, always weighing the balance of light and dark inside of her—Hermione had become attuned to the silent song of magical auras, or _signatures_ , as she’d like to put it herself.

It dictated people, much more so than one ever realised, and Hermione followed the silent song of bodies, dancing around them in their own self-made tune. Hermione Granger was not smart and skilled for nothing. It was a matter of survival, but sometimes, survival made her think of many dark things. Survival was primal and purely instinct, and though Hermione was a rational thinker, always deep within her mind before seeking control of her ready limbs, it was in the fight of a war—in the most _lethal_ of moments—she let herself loose, and she left destruction in her path that would become irreversible and damaging. One of the reasons why she was a crucial player in the war, a target with a sharp wit and an even sharper skill.

She was a threat, procured by Fate to have a chance the second time.

Hermione won’t waste it, and she won’t give others a chance to peer into her.

And if it meant acting evasive and a bit hostile in the presence of a curious— _invasive_ —Aliena Travers, and Hermione’s new friends—then so be it. The result far outweighed the means. She was willing to sacrifice anything— _anyone_ —to just prevail in her new mission, to come back to her friends with no more deaths upon their hands. And Hermione Granger could be detrimental, reckless, and brave to the point it could be perceived as dim-witted, but she would do so with no question at all.

And as Hermione _Celare_ , she was willing to give her all.

Procuring her clothes out of the trunk, Hermione stood up, noticing the slight ache in her ribs and calves, her throbbing scar on her left forearm. Aliena took that moment to pipe up once more.

“And what about—what about this morning?” Aliena asked, and with that question, Hermione felt Aliena’s buzzing magic simmer down, as if yielding and knowing Hermione could sense the jitters of her soul. Hermione inhaled sharply, seeing _eyes_ with suffering—then no eyes at all; screams, and the silence, and then the sweet green of a distant memory, and then the flash of red— _a familiar pain_.

“What about it?” Hermione’s voice became colder, and as if she was an unknown force, her voice brought with it the temperature of the room, making it seem empty and denounced of life.  The slight aggression and defence that came out of her voice was from her slight anger at herself this morning, for letting her guard down and showing her weaknesses to them,. The draught of peace calms the mind, but it does not entirely quell down anger, so it bleeds through Hermione’s voice, like blood on bandages, slowly revealing splotchy patches. Augusta felt like wanting to slap her friend, Aliena, in the face for asking such an impetuous (though it may not be) question to a very _clearly_ , traumatised person. Alappona just felt afraid in that moment.

“You had a nightmare, and just—will you be alright?”

That question was out of sudden, quiet concern, and rather than melting Hermione’s cold, heightened barriers meant to be there to keep herself safe, it only made her grow more uneasy and suspicious, making her heart beat faster, making her scars throb. It was painful.

She had to go see Madam Balker for that later.

“I don’t know that either.”

Hermione went back into the loo, changed into the new clothes provided for her, still a size too big for her small frame, and unsurprisingly similar to what she wore yesterday. Hermione did not mind as much, pleased that it had long sleeves to cover her now aching scar. With the new clothes, it came with her slightly blank face.

She did not wish to have any more reasons to question Aliena’s motives, which played a bit more with her mind. And with the topic of minds, Hermione planned then and there to learn Occlumency and Legillimency, if it only meant for her safety. After all, she needn’t be reminded that at this age,Tom Riddle was also an already skilled Legillimens, and could  also possibly be a well Occlumens.

She would not take her chances of  leaving her mind vulnerable, even if she decided to stay far away from Riddle.

Hermione left, a few more missions put close to her heart.

**________________________________**

 

He had yet to see her again, and he was anticipating the time he would see her. The new, profound knowledge that Dumbledore had announced the previous night had made his skin itch with anticipation, made his mind reel with unparalleled shock. Of course, he had to question the truthfulness of the information that was laid upon them last night. He was willing to dive deep, filled with cunning and ambition, to dissect if she was true— _real_ —and if she had the answers indeed, he was seeking for. The unknown _did_ unnerve him, and death was always unknown, lingering at the end of a dark corridor, waiting beyond a shut door, closed tight within the lid of a jar.

There would be benefits confirming her knowledge first hand, and there would be even sweeter fruits coming to know just _what_ that knowledge was. It was to guide him through the unknown that laid before him, and though he was not afraid to carve a path for himself, he just wished to do so with more guidance and ease,  rather than having to struggle  through charming people endlessly, and keeping  them appeased. In order to do so, he had to sacrifice precious time he didn’t have, feel latched to an obligation when he should be free.

He wanted _none_ of that anymore.

Soon, they would come to fear him. He wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.

 _Soon_.

But, before he could meet the Time Traveller of Hogwarts, Tom had bigger goals that he wanted to achieve, and he wasn’t just about to give it up yet. There were a great many stories and tales that Hogwarts housed, and Tom, in his eagerness before he had come to Hogwarts as a clueless child, had devoured every small piece of information about the world of magic—otherwise known as _Hogwarts_ , which was now his home. He used his spare time to walk and study the whole castle, steps leading him farther than any other student has achieved. Although, studying Hogwarts and magic and excelling far beyond the capacity of his own schoolmates did not protect him from the blood prejudice and bigotry that mauled him into pieces, Tom learned to create pathways around their set obstacle.

Those who Tom perceived to be the strongest in terms of status and blood, he made known to them his heritage. They _knew_ of Tom’s heritage, and they now bowed to _him_ only. But Tom was missing the connection he had to this castle—a legend tailored to be connected to Salazar Slytherin; a parting gift before his untimely exit from the confines of Hogwarts, and thenceforth, left his chamber a mystery into the forth coming history. A legend written through blood.

_The Chamber of Secrets._

Tom followed the silent whispers at night, roaming far and wide for those voices that called to him in a way no other. No one but _him_ alone could hear the unique whispers that seemed so familiar, chilling him down to his bones and warming his blood in the cold of the night. It called for his attention, it _pulled_ at his magical core, smoothing down the wrinkles of his crumpled humanity, settling a tranquillity above his skin. It settled like a veil on his flesh, not keeping the air away, but not letting it touch him either.

But the more he failed at finding the voices, the more he became anxious.

_Jittery._

And he _hated_ not knowing. The notion of finding the voices would always send excitement coursing through his veins, anticipating the day he would find the voices— _or maybe just a single voice_ —that whispered, echoing in the cavernous castle, syncing into several voices. But, only hearing the voices were much simpler, compared to finding the _source_ of where they came from, and it would always take him endless nights to search, submerging himself in darkness rather than the bliss of sleep.

“Tom!” He heard someone shout distantly, but it brought the migraine Tom had from the lack of sleep to a disturbing throb that nearly made him groan. But keeping his countenance from expressing his displeasure, Tom turned to the source of the voice with a slightly miffed look, present in the slight wrinkle of his brow that didn’t take away the pleasantness of his vanity. A boy ran down the hall, robes flying behind him and steps jumping over the shadows of pillars, his movements casting shadows across the empty walls. His steps were loud, muffling the whispered voices Tom was trying to find.

“ _Yes_ , Mulciber?” Tom asked a boy who had dark brown hair, nearly black in its entirety, his coiffed tresses windswept from his rapid journey down the hall. Tom met the dark grey eyes of the boy, who bowed down slightly in apology, though his chest rose up and down in too fast of a motion. Tom let him have his breath, but he wasn’t exactly inclined to let him have it forever with how loud his breaths were. _Circe_ , Tom could feel the heat of his breath from _just_ an arm’s distance. At the same time, he could also feel his skull throb, _bollocks._

“M-mate,” he gasped, holding the small moniker as a faux front to their _‘friendship’._ Recovering with the smallest bit of dignity he had left, Mulciber straightened his bent back, fixing his robes into the prim, crisp condition they were supposed to be in. Tom eyed him with a very much fake (though not apparent), friendly regard with a shielded disdain that underlined the steel beneath his eyes. Venom tasted metallic on Tom’s tongue.

“I just fetched you a _letter_ from our _owl_ ,” Mulciber told him, swiftly reaching into one of the stitched in pockets of his robes, revealing an envelope that no doubt was holding information that Tom was quite eager to devour. “ _Letter_ ”, clearly meant _information_ , and “ _owl_ ” meant “ _informer_ ”. Someone had acquired him knowledge from outside, knowledge of which would leave people confused, yet quite suspicious of why Tom wanted to know that in the first place. But Tom would not let them know, and if he would ever try to tell his Knights, Tom knew they’d be _scared._

 _But at least they’d keep their mouths shut, right? Of course, they were_ obligated _to._

Nearly ripping the envelope out of Mulciber’s hand, Tom at least dignified his nearly enthusiastic action with a carefully calculative look down at the piece of folded parchment, looking at it to see if there were ever certain enchantments placed on the envelope that were there to betray his trust. _He found none_. Looking up to Mulciber with a near to appreciative look, he sent the boy a smile—a smile more worthy of a smirk. Behind that smirk, was a hunger and a far darker desire—one Mulciber recognised, which forced him to hide his shiver of fear.

The smirk grew into a row of sharp teeth.

“Thank you, Mulciber,” Tom thanked him cordially, envelope then placed into the pocket of his cloak. “I’ll see you at lunch later, mate.” He added as an afterthought, and then nodded as the boy left, and he noted happily that his migraine was nearly gon— _and there it was again_.

Tom groaned.

If there was ever a time more deserving for a visit to the infirmary, Tom was certain _now_ was the right time. His search for the silent voices could wait later, though Tom felt quite the displeasure with the migraine he had now. He let out a small breath, one that eased through the air and shut off his perception of the whispering voices, now only a breath away from where he once was. His hands fell in a smooth arc, down to his side, fingers brushing the groove of his wand beneath his robe, inside the pocket of his trousers. The bump made him feel safe and reassured.

Then, Tom had begun walking, greeting other students who loitered the halls with a small smile as he went his way. But, his migraine was as persistent as his facade, and he damned his _‘image’_ to oblivion, when all he wanted to do at that point was destroy every window that he passed by in the hallway, knowing that his entire morning escapade all proved a waste of his time—fruitless in his endeavour. The morning light— _‘damn these bloody large windows’_ —were irritating his head more and more, making him feel slightly nauseous. But, _thank Merlin_ , the infirmary was just steps away.

When he walked in, Tom hadn’t really expected anything. In his mind, he pictured walking into a room, lined with beds, walls all the same—the usual brick stones with arched windows, wide enough to paint a scenery. But the first thing that Tom saw was a bushy hair, tied into a sloppy pony tail, and saw the frame of a familiar yet unfamiliar girl. Her blouse hung off of her arms, especially the area around her stomach where it met her skirt. Madam Balker was tending to her, usually serene and happy expression pressed into a grim line.

 The back of the girl was turned to him, and the moment he walked in, he saw the girl snatch her left arm from Madam Balker and her wide eyes turned to him.

 _And he saw those eyes before_.

Her doe eyes pierced the emptiness of his soul—and there was _something_ there—which to him, it was something familiar. That _something_ was sometimes nearly tangent in nature, which he revelled in, like wine that he stole from Mrs. Cole’s hidden cupboard on his taste buds, the ecstatic joy of finding something he wanted— _the joy of fear_.

 He held her eyes for a moment, slowly furrowing them as her eyes then became lined with steel, and he found that this bitter steel of her’s ( _which he found out later was so much like his in so many different aspects_ ) actually lined her entire body like muscles and bone, tensing what he thought had been limp meat on her bones, straightening her spine like a pole and tensing each bone in her arms and legs into coiled springs, _ready for the move_. She looked like a lioness backed into a corner, hunted by its first sight of man with a large staff equipped with a blade at the edge. She acted as if she would be attacked.

He hadn’t moved an inch.

But yes, Tom recognised her, and he would enjoy every bit of her nervous company, found at the shiver of her feet, to the recognition that she had belatedly shown in her eyes with the steel of her bones. Tom inwardly smirked to himself, because this girl—Hermione Celare, the time traveller—knew of him. Not because his reputation was spread about in the entire school— _but because she recognised him from a place far darker than this castle would ever be._

 _And he recognised where her eyes truly were_ —simply because _—he had been there too_.

“Ah,Tom,” Madam Balker snapped him out of his inner musings, and he turned a taut smile to her, bringing his hand up to rub the side of his head where his migraine was pounding. Madam Balker followed the movement of his hand, and her frown pressed even deeper, before her dark grey eyes glanced to Celare, who Tom found was facing away from him, refusing to acknowledge his presence anymore. Tom didn’t mind her deliberate ignorance, as he stalked to Madam Balker with a coy expression, rubbing the side of his head still.

“What brings you here again, lad?” Madam Balker raised a brow at him, before turning around to rummage through a cupboard in the back of the room where vials of potions were stored, all in various shapes and sizes, bottled personally with different colours of liquid floating through the transparent glass. Without turning her back,Tom didn’t have to look to know she had a slight disappointed scowl on her face, Madam Balker told him, “Don’t tell me it is _another_ migraine, for Merlin’s sake.”

For the past few months, unbeknown to the majority of the school, Tom became a frequent visitor to the Hospital Wing around the beginning of Christmas, when he found the strange voices. It urged him to nearly unhealthy levels to study more and research on what the voices were, improve upon his magic, and fuel the notion of the purity of his blood. He would not let down this search until he found a certain answer, since he knew that this magical world sadly revolved around the purity of one’s heritage—a heritage Tom himself, would soon find out.

Tom chuckled wanly, eyes downcast to show his shame. “Unfortunately, it _is_ another migraine, Madam Balker.”

Madam Balker made a sound between a groan and a tired sigh, already walking back with a familiar vial in hand. “What did I just say, Mr. Riddle?” She gave him a slight glare, and when Tom reached for the vial in her hand, he looked up quite a bit to meet Celare’s curious eyes which were trained on him, and when he rose his brows at her, she snapped her head back, one hand on her left forearm. Tom didn’t grace her response a conniving smirk, which he _would’ve_ given, if only his growing migraine had disappeared. He ran the rough, fatty part of his thumb over the grooves of the bottle, before moving his thumb to uncap the thing.  But before the cap could even make a whoosh, Madam Balker put her hand over the young man’s.

“Hold your hippogriffs, boy,” she chided. With one last look to him, she stalked back to Celare, running her wand over her figure to cast diagnostic charms over her frigid frame. “Sit down in that other bed over there. I have to give you a check-up, soon.” She gestured to the bed behind Celare. Tom moved his mouth, ready to protest but Madam Balker held up a hand at him.

“You’ve been taking too much of these potions for the past few weeks to sate your migraine, Mr. Riddle,” Madam Balker told him, eyes turning to his prone figure with a paternal warmth that had Tom balking at her slightly, unfamiliar with the warmth that settled inside her grey storms. It leaves him bereft and lost, making him uneasy, thus making him clench his jaw in annoyance. He masked it by making a slight frown on his face, furrowing his eyes in fake apology. But Madam Balker digressed, “Who knows, you might be immune to the potions at these point. Your magic feels jittery, even from here. I know you’ve been pushing yourself too hard in your studies, boy. You _need_ the rest.”

Tom, not one to put up protest with an authoritative figure, nodded in defeat, though a small part of him seemed slightly glad he had to stay. When Madam Balker had mentioned his exhaust over his studies,Celare had _slightly_ perked up, glancing at him under thin lashes, barely hiding her curiosity and suspicion. But nonetheless, it was a chance to talk with the time traveller—to find out what his future was. How his future would lie.

Unbeknown to him, that was the last thing she would ever tell him.

_It was a promise._

Taking Madam Balker’s commands, he sat down, eyes trained on Celare, though her back was faced to him. The matron looked at the both of them, and then shook her head, as if exasperated, before throwing a small smile to Celare. Tom did not know if she returned it or not, but he was sure that she had. It seemed like it was something she _would_ do, given how closer in terms of physical confines to the matron she was. Tom narrowed his eyes a bit more. Madam Balker spoke up again.

“Pardon me, Mr. Riddle. But the lady wants some privacy.” Before he knew it, a privacy curtain was summoned across him and Celare’s cot, obfuscating his site of the girl. Tom didn’t huff under his breath, but he _did_ roll his eyes in slight annoyance. But besides his site being taken away, he found that they could not silence their voices, so Tom could hear everything.

Each word that Madam Balker spoke was protocol and necessary; _mechanical_ except for this _warmth_ that lingered in the edge of her voice, spoken soft and sure as if talking to her own child. Tom was sure it was impossible to care for a _stranger_ , but the more that Madam Balker spoke that way, the more the words cloyed into his soul, making him shake his head in disgust, making his head hurt even more so from the migraine. Clearing all of his thoughts, Tom found the next words intriguing, especially from the next person who spoke.

“It _hurts_ whenever I move, and the bruises don’t _heal_. I’ve tried healing them myself on the way here, and I—they _don’t._ ” He couldn’t quite describe Celare’s voice, except for general observations, like the strength of her diction, and the emphasis of her words. Her voice wasn’t strong and deep, but it was not high pitched either, and it was neither cold or warm. But it was the correct balance in between, which meant that Celare was a person who maintained her control, and from her previous interest and suspicion, she put logic before emotion. Tom himself was intrigued even more— _a harder puzzle_.

Drifting on that thought, he listened further, but as if mentally sensing his probing nature, Celare’s answers were quieter—much harder to hear. His ears strained to only hear few words in between, too obscure in nature to be deciphered, yet still, he was given the general idea just from the words; “ _dark—sense—aura—magic—pain—scar—time”._

Softly, he heard Madam Balker chuckle, but she said no words in return. A few sparkles of baby blue light and yellow emit from within the curtain, and in those moments of sparkling light, their shadows could be seen, Madam Balker healing parts of Celare’s torso, her hip, and her leg, like a slideshow with no words needed to portray what’s already self-explanatory. But when it came to the last image, Madam Balker was giving special attention to her left forearm, but only tiny lights— _embers,_ he found more appropriate—were coming out from Madam Balker’s wand. What the matron received was a slight hiss and whimper. Tom narrowed his gaze even more, curious as to what had given Celare this intriguing reaction when, no doubt, Madam Balker had _not_ caused that with her magic. He winced quite a bit as his migraine focused even more onto the left side of his temple.

“ _Nothing’s working_ ,” Celare hissed.

Tom drew his face into a blank expression and looked away, when he heard a tapping by the window. Standing up, sweeping his robes softly to the side with his vial in hand, Tom took quick strides to the window despite the aching of his head.

“What’s that tapping there, Mr. Riddle?” Madam Balker spoke from behind the privacy curtain, Tom turning back to glance before continuing his journey to the large windows, his  worn out shoes an even louder tap against the flagstone floor.

“Just an owl, Madam,” Tom answered back, opening the rusted window from its large, silver lock and hinge. It groaned open with the push of his delicate fingers, the fleshy pads of his fingers brushing the feathers of a quite placated, black and grey short eared owl. Tom grew suspicious of the owl, for when he first laid his eyes on the dark thing, he had thought it would’ve belonged to Celare, or Madam Balker—anyone else, particularly _not_ him, because no one really messaged him, if at all. _Unless, of course, it was the occasional obsessed person who had eyes on him, oh Circe, but besides that, he had no one to send letters to him at all._

“Who’s it for, lad?” Madam Balker spoke up once more, sounding more distracted and preoccupied. Tom rubbed the head of the owl, before snatching his hand back after seeing the malicious gleam of the owl’s amber eyes, just as the owl answered him with a few nicks in the direction of his hand. Tom focused a bit of his magic onto the offending predator, straightening its small beady mind out into a string connected to his magical appendages, ready to bend to his will. He took the letter tied to the end of its leg, an unknown wax seal, the colour of rubies stamped onto the front of the letter, edges prim and proper.

Tom eyed the the letter and the symbol on the front—and he froze as quick as his fast mind could recognise the crest like his fingers stuck to his hand. His mind raced for possible reasons as to why this _person_ would send a letter to him—even know _how_ he knew of him.

“Who’s it for, Mr. Riddle?” The matron broke him out of his thoughts, but Tom restored his mental and physical shield, politeness washing over him though his migraine still persisted to knock against his temple. He fought the urge to fist the letter, not wanting to set off any magical wards stored in its paper folds.

“It’s for me, Madam.”

It was for him, and he didn’t know _why_. A time traveller stepped foot into his era, and now _this_. Soon, he should wring out what lied ahead in his future from Celare if even _he_ is messaging him now, for he didn't want  _any_ unknown factors to come into play.

He plans to talk to Celare soon to put _his own_ plan into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've found any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes, please forgive me for such errors, guys. I did the edits myself, and if I missed anything, I hope it's understandable. But anyways, if you have any writing advice or have any comments, please feel free to leave a comment below. I'll be happy to read them, as they inspire to write faster and crap like that.
> 
> Thank you!


	6. To Brief and Debrief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysteries mar her skin in ways Hermione Granger has yet to figure out. But despite the minor revelations, she cannot help but be pushed into an uncomfortable situation that may prove either beneficial or traumatising to her, as she walks down the corridors of Hogwarts along with her future murderer, fear and righteous fury tangling her spine in a confusing bundle. And as she walks, maybe Tom Riddle is not the only darkness to exist in this time. 
> 
> There is a darkness she has yet to remember and come to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, you guys. I was holding this back because of writer's block, but I finally bit the bullet and continued despite my mind going black several times. So I apologise, if this chapter feels rather short and lacklustre. 
> 
> But also, before we begin, I hope I do not come across as selfish and demanding to all of you, but if you feel that I have something lacking in my work, or feel the need to improve, or have thoughts on the things I write, I do not mind any of you guys dropping by to leave a review, because they just brighten my day! I take all critique and comments to heart, and I sincerely appreciate those of you who have given me the time of day. I will be honest and say that I always come back to this site because of the reviews people leave me, and the lovely stories that I come across. But everyone's opinions on my work just motivate me so much! 
> 
> So thank you! All of you motivate me! 
> 
> So, now, on with the story!

**Chapter 6**

**“** _Unless we love and are loved, each of us is alone, each of us is deeply lonely_. **”  
**  

— ** _Mortimer Adler_**

****

Time ticked by in seconds, reverberating like a countdown towards her doom, devouring a small part of her as each second came ticking by.  She _hated_ this waiting, confined within a box of her worries that made her memories surface without any of her prompting. Just the action  of remembering her fractured war memories and broken voices of close friends were _painful_ enough in their endeavour, now even more so without a second thought as the weight of her burden lay heavy on her chest. It urged her to burst into tears— _but she would not. She was strong._

Hermione Celare cannot help but grimace on her own in the privacy of the bed that she laid on as she tried to move her magic internally in her battered body— _trying to make it heal, trying to fix herself_ —to nearly no avail.

 _Nothing._ The scar—that was the only thing that refused to heal, and persisted to _hurt_ like flesh held over an open flame.

But that wouldn’t stop her from finding the answers as to why—and her health had to come first before the mission. She _knew_ she had to heal first before she could proceed with a proper plan, because without her body in full capacity, she could not be able to do things at her very best. _But there are some things she has to solve at the moment in order to heal_. And there was another problem as well, being: _Tom Riddle_.

Hermione could not look at him straight in the eye again, afraid of what that might do to her mind—unwilling to revisit the shipwrecks drowned by her memories. Getting close to him was _never_ part of her plan, and here it all was, just _happening_.

But, she was Hermione Granger, and just an encounter with the younger version of her murderer would not deter her from stopping a future war.

As Hermione stared across her privacy curtain between her and Tom Riddle, after her failed attempt at healing her battered body, she recounted every painful memory that had cost her a shard of her soul, to be thrown into the abyss, to be forgotten and taken, as she stared back at the darkness that resided within her. She recalled her sufferings; the knowledge of a growing war, the _searing pain_ of each new injury— _each new scar_ —acknowledging her fragility and sacrificing her morality to the much forsaken monstrosity that lived within her.

The faces of her parents one last time before the image of their daughter faded from their reverie; her sacrifice of scrubbing away the memories of their only child off of their growing, primed canvas, creating a hole in their lives ( _and in hers_ ) with no artifice. Tears came to her eyes, and with the anguish that leaked out of her being in a salty trail, something followed her sadness, crystalline and _itchy_ and all the manner, _harder_ to swallow and grasp.

This feeling— _the hardness of her blood, and the growing beat of her heart, and the deafening voice of her mind_ —registered slowly, like lava off the lip of a volcano—such _redness_ and radiating heat, tearing off her skin limb by limb. _Anger. Fury. Rage._

 _Hermione wanted revenge_.

She looked away, into the eyes of the windows, and she sought peace and clarity for her aching soul. There was enough anger in her life; enough hatred and fear and tears. _She needn’t add to that growing pile of bodies and bones_. But even with that overflowing pile, it did not dismiss the fact that she _wanted_ revenge for the comrades she’d left without a farewell; for the lives that have been lost and for the freedom that was rightfully their’s.

 _All because a young man did not want to die_.

As what had been said before, glory came in many shapes and forms.

And she would not deny that monstrosity did as well.

So Hermione rested her angered soul just for a bit, because another death by her hands was not the _glory_ that she wished to accomplish; to be embellished onto her soul with the crudeness of malice and fury. A death born from the ugliness of _hate_ —not entirely a pretty word to present along salvation. _Even if she thought his death was necessary, there were other ways._ And Fate had trust in her—to give balance to this unprecedented future that would come. _She just wished that she knew what to do_.

Hermione sat up, just in time to see Madam Balker pull back the privacy curtains, enacting a break through her reverie. Unintentionally, her eyes swept over the face of the boy, before glancing back from his empty and probing gaze, _irked_ by the fact as to _why_ she could recognise the murderer, yet _not_ —because he was completely and entirely _human_. His face was maybe _too_ soft and air-brushed by rosiness to be considered _cold_. He had full lips with perfect teeth instead of a hissing slit for a mouth with a forked tongue; the absence of cruelty and anger setting a grim reminder to his fate, and if she had felt anger towards him earlier, _then she felt pity now_.

Yet, _his eyes._ They were the same, yet _different_. The same emptiness, same depth, yet it wasn’t _raging_ red, volcanic and destructive, and overall terrifying and so _mad_ at the world. So lost, alone, afraid, and _hysterical_.

 _Voldemort had been drunk off of the power he had taken_.

Tom Riddle _now_ still hadn’t felt it.

**_What the bloody hell._ **

Her shame and pity came unbidden, bubbling beneath her skin like the sizzling surface of boiling water, making her hands and limbs shake slightly with guilt because she’s feeling _bad_ for her murderer, and the more she came to think about it, the more it _hurt_ , because he _had_ killed people; killed Harry’s parents, killed a student, killed her friends’family, killed some of her own friends, and has killed Dumbledore and has killed many more, but right now, he _hasn’t._ And all she thought about at that moment was _how_ could she justify her anger, resentment, fear, and regrets onto a man who had _yet_ to commit murder on her loved ones?

And the fact stood clear that she just _couldn’t_ rectify her anger, hatred and revenge into a justifiable light, and for once, she wished this was a whole joke. That Tom Riddle was not in front of her, and that she was just dreaming. But reality knocked on the door of her chest, pounding blood into her ears and settling warmth into the palms of her hands, squeezed _too tight_ in a grip that belied her strength. She bolstered through her worries, and remembered her promise.

 _She would be strong_.

So that was that.

 

“Both of you have come to prove you’re a handful,” Madam Balker spoke up, separating words upon words of self-induced fear and pity from Hermione’s muddled mind, and as if she had an unconscious part of her logical brain still working, all memories of the past and the thoughts of a few moments ago were stored in a file somewhere where Merlin could summon later. Hermione gave Madam Balker an impish smile, feeling a small burn of shame course within her for the problems she believed herself to have put upon the matron. She had not wished to burden the Madam anymore.

“I’m terribly sorry, Madam Balker,” Hermione began, words dipping into sincerity which came unbidden.

 “We _both_ apologise for the inconvenience. Merlin knows you already have enough duties as is, Madam,” Tom Riddle spoke up suddenly on their behalf, without Hermione’s consent ( _but it wasn’t like he needed it anyway_ ). But pushing it aside, Hermione gave him just a  _smidgen_ of a glance of suspicion, masking it to look like surprise, before smiling back at Madam Balker who seemed contented enough with their courteousness.

_But Merlin and Circe knew the hidden intentions of their soft-spoken words, with the way poison coursed through their veins._

Madam Balker remained blissfully ignorant to their rigidness.

Glancing at a distant clock on the wall, Madam Balker clicked her tongue and waved them both in dismissal. And as if much more divine powers were at play ( _which, perhaps they were_ ), the healing matron gave them an idea as she said her farewells. “It’s lunch time now you two—so go get your fill. Escort the young lady, would you, Tom? The Great Hall would be awfully full with bolstering students—and by the fates, do they know how underfed Hermione is. Go on now!” _By the fates indeed._

The Madam shooed them away.

 ** _Damn this sudden turn of events_**. Hermione thought, as her hopes of escaping became dashed away with Madam Balker’s polite requests, because she had _assumed_ that she could escape without any further encounter with the young Dark Lord. Seemed like _Fate_ had other thoughts in mind ( ** _the prick_** ). She would be granted no reprieve of his dark presence, to be reminded always of her mission. That was what Fate was probably doing right now.

A dark cloaked elbow met Hermione’s peripheral, and the future witch turned her wide eyes to Tom Riddle. Hermione cursed Fate mentally, her thoughts working miles a minute as she dumbly gazed at his elbow, before remembering that once again, in this era, proper manners and gestures were pretty wide and common, applied into the daily lives of people to show propriety. _But Hermione refused to even touch the young man._

It was as if she had been suddenly pushed into a badly written narrative.

_(She had most probably been)._

Before Hermione needed to make the poor decision— _to take his arm or not?_ —Tom Riddle pulled his arm away, inquiring gaze set upon her unresponsive form. She accidentally met his eyes on, before becoming ensnared within the depths of cobalt and ivory, letting the coldness of his soul sink in and weigh her down like boulders tied to her limp feet. But his lip moved, and it broke the cold spell that it had on her battered heart, his words a pair of shears through a mass of cotton and unyielding wool stuffed into her ears.

“Does the future not practice proper manners and gestures to others?” The wizard inquired, voice seeming to sound more curious than insulted, the evidence of this marked by the lack of venom on his tongue (though internally, there probably _was_ disdain). Then, to which Hermione cast a small glance to gauge him, before folding her arms in on herself, fingers playing on the loose cuffs of her baby blue blouse. It was strange to her—how his once stinging venom was absent, unlike what she had found in his future self.  She opted to converse with him, no matter how small. Civility—after all—was needed to keep a conversation from turning for the worst.

Though her warrior blood was itching for a fight, deep down inside her, the tingles and impressions of the war still imprinted within her every nerve ending, anticipating a fight and wishing to sate her burning senses and overthinking mind, to fill in the tacit silence that spoke of a calm—usually before a storm—before a tirade of disasters. She could not take silence when she had been so used to a field of many probabilities and sudden moves that could prove to be fatal. But she had to keep up her appearance.

So she held up her defences.

“I would not say that completely, uh—Riddle,” Hermione answered him, while also testing to feel the taste of his name on her tongue, and she decided that she _hated_ it. She wanted to never say the name again—just because it felt alike a betrayal to her past ( _well, future_ ), and also because it felt so strange to say such a foreign name. Hermione could not fathom the innate disdain she already held for Riddle, but she persisted to be completely fair with herself that he did not completely deserve it _yet_. “But I apologise if I’ve _offended_ you.” Hermione tried to make her words sound sincere—but the narrowing of Tom’s eyes bore testament of his true thoughts, and Hermione lamented her wasted effort internally.

Nevertheless, she continued, speaking honestly to try and deflect any coming tension, though her next words became more sharp in nature. “Though I’m curious as to why you’d want to even know,” she told him, keeping her gaze set forward then as she dared not to look at him, fiddling with her sleeves. Riddle’s eyes honed onto her calloused hands, speculations already forming in his head. Hermione stilled her hands, feeling them burning from his gaze. Tom watched her freeze, and he looked forward as well.

They were both hawks, insistent on watching.

He responded, “It’s not everyday that you come across a witch from the future. So, naturally, I would be curious as to what the future would be.” Tom passed an empty gaze towards her, expecting her to be inclined to answer him with honesty, as if his curiosity alone would make her eager to answer what he needed to know, like what other girls his age would normally do.

Hermione was not a normal girl, and it was foolish of Tom to assume so, because of course, she had existed in a different time era where it was obvious that social conduct and manners were not held in a higher regard. It made him curious as to _how far_ into the past she had gone, or how much their world had changed. But he swept those thoughts aside as Hermione turned to him. Her eyes met his, and he was suddenly sucked into a deep pit, like the hollow grooves of tree bark, in between each small crevice, that if he were as tiny as an atom, he would be looking up among wooden canyons. And there, he would find an inferno with cold flames, _searing and there to burn him._ Tom did not like such, because such was not his fate.  

Hermione felt her gryffindor indignancy line her words like metal frames, holding her together. She did not make it apparent, but it was there, however small of a fraction it was— _this honest blaze_. “Maybe if you keep on living, then you don’t need to be curious anymore.”

Her words were cold, strange— _astute_. Tom’s eyes narrowed dangerously, flashing something ominous, which Hermione could tell from his magic, vibrating dangerously over his skin, palpable enough to be felt, but not sure enough that it was there. But it was a _heavy_ miscalculation on Hermione’s part, her words the result of a slip of her tongue and her _damning_ sharp wit. But she continued, nevertheless, letting her cryptic words lay out a road before her, because there was nothing else she could do about taking her words back. She had already dealt the damage, so she might as well roll with it.

“My future is not such a beautiful place, after all. Not at all.” _Not for her_ , _at least_. She left many things unsaid in that particular sentence, but if she indeed had faith in herself that she could change the future, then the only terrible future she had witnessed would be her’s alone, and not for Riddle. Fate was in her very hands. And Hermione realised something—something small, and she didn’t know if it was significant.

_But Tom Riddle happened to meet fate that day._

A wry smile encompassed Hermione’s lips, masking the bitterness of her tongue from the statement, because, _indeed_ , she was creating such a beautiful ending for herself, at the expense of such sorrowful pain ( _that no one would soon remember_ ). And the man before her was the reason, yet all she could do was warn him that the future that she had experienced— _was not such a good one._

And her fate was to suffer in silence.

Neither of the enemies questioned why Hermione, herself, chuckled dauntingly.

But after her last statement, Riddle smoothed down the creases of his eyes and opted to not ask for the future in such a blatant manner anymore, already knowing that the future witch was suspicious of him. But just as suspicious as she was, he _too_ was suspicious of her.

That, he would not deny.

They walked in a slight, uncomfortable silence, and though both perceive that it does not bode well for the both of them, they are outwardly calm and collected, almost enjoying the silence of their own thoughts. But their hearts were planning steps ahead, even before their minds knew of each other’s intentions. And perhaps that was what would keep them captivated, like the pull of the tides to the calm shores, or onto the face of a cliff, always coming and receding. That was what adversaries were. But in that sea, Hermione pulled out a few words to fill the silence that she was starting to loathe, her body still tense, worry gripping her heart.

“You study a lot, I believe,” Hermione told him, words knitted without her knowledge and spilling from the seams of her lips. Her breath nearly hitched after the words came to existence within the air.

Riddle glanced to her, and his eyes held the aforementioned suspicion, but he opted to show slight surprise, holding the suspicion just within himself. “Yes,” he chuckled in good nature, lips curving naturally. “I do believe so. It is, after all, necessary in order to strive for greatness and power.”

_There. That word._

Hermione hated hearing it, especially from him. It reminded her of a hissing monster set to slaughter children. But she persisted, as the afternoon littered through the castle, and as she tried to pull herself from memories of crumbling walls that was once this very corridor, her breaths shaky, though inaudible enough.

“I believe it is admirable that you study hard—or well, harder than what your peers seem to show in this era.” _Not to mention being one of the brightest wizards of this age_ , Hermione nearly thought snidely, but bit her tongue. “But when you mentioned greatness and power—what are you talking about specifically?” Her curiosity got the better of herself, but for this one small inquiry, Hermione didn’t care. She really _wanted_ to know.

“I want to be great— _greater_ than,” Riddle paused, eyeing the flag stones, before peering up at the chatting portraits, some of them taking notice of the both of them and waving, and whispering. Hermione bolstered, taking longer steps to be able to peer up at Riddle’s face—to see signs of weakness.

“Greater than what, Riddle?” She brushed away errant curls, smoothed down her skirt. She looked up at his face, and she saw _that_ look— _such emptiness in his gaze_ —for the hunger for power, with a misplaced passion. _This scared Hermione_.

“Greater than _death_ ,” Riddle ( _or Voldemort?_ ) answered.

 _To triumph over demise_. That was the glory Riddle wanted, but Hermione—she didn’t care to psychoanalyse Riddle, or didn’t even give any flying damns with whatever brought this misplaced passion on. But she became angry at Riddle, _enraged_ even, that _this_ was his selfish dream. _To get over death_. But Hermione didn’t care. _Hermione Celare never would_. She refused to jeopardise the sake of her future for such a lowly dream of a man with nothing—no matter how insensitive that sounded. And Tom Riddle was even less of a man. He wasn’t _anything_. His dream wasn’t anything— _not to Hermione_.

If she had to shatter his dream of ever being immortal— _she would_. Because to be immortal, he didn’t necessarily need to take countless lives like harvest in a wheat field. Tom Riddle didn’t deserve the judgement Hermione would bestow upon him yet, but he was _half way_ from receiving it.

Because, though Hermione didn’t want to _fully_ murder his arse, if she had to, _she would_. Tom Riddle’s dream be damned.

“What about you?” Riddle broke through her reverie, and Hermione peered up at him, surprised, suddenly noticing how she unclenched her own fists.

“What?” She asked, oblivious, not having heard his question the first time. Tom tried half-heartedly to hide his unimpressed gaze, but Hermione guessed he didn’t have one (a heart) with how his disdain seemed to slide like second nature across his handsome eyes.

“What do _you_ strive for?” He asked her, and the questioned seemed _so unlike_ Riddle to ask, but Hermione was prompted to answer. She could never lie to a question such as that.

“I strive to survive—to change, adapt, and make something from nothing.” Hermione answered him, with a clench of her hands and with a strong furrow of her brow, no matter how vague her words were. The steel in her words were much stronger than before, more determined.

“And what does that necessarily mean? What do you intend to make?” Tree bark irises met ivory and cobalt hues, and nothing was more igniting than heat and _hate_ , but the latter was not very profound. It was more silent in the way that their dreams were such different concepts from each other, they could _never_ touch, though they were the same difference. It was terrifying and exhilarating, to one day, just meet someone who had such different ideals to you yet both of you just functioned and worked in the same ways. They were scary to each other. _Threats._

“It means that I want to live—that I want the opportunity to be free and to exist in life—not throw it away. I want to to make my freedom. _Create_ a way—to go back and continue everything from where I had once vanished in time before I came here.” _To fight through the war. The war he created._

Some things were left unsaid to Riddle, and it was tangible enough for Riddle alone to grasp. And if he _had_ understood the full grasp of such unsaid words, he did not show. Hermione had left many things unspoken, but neither of them addressed the absence of such. They felt too bereft on foreign ground to be able to make a move.

But that was the end of that conversation, the sounds of tinkering silverware and chatter becoming louder as the Great Hall doors loomed closer and closer, the afternoon light making the din lively and sunny. Hermione felt herself nearly becoming liberated from Tom Riddle. The heavy tension and suspicion that crowded the both of them was constricting around their necks, pressing down on their backs persistently.

She set foot into the threshold, but no one noticed her enter, too preoccupied with the warm food filling their stomachs for the weekend. She looked up into the Staff’s table—and she met Dumbledore’s eyes—and Hermione looked away, unnerved.

_The same gleam was there._

If Tom noticed the tremble of her hands when she looked up to the Staff’s table, then he had never said a thing. And there, they parted ways to their house tables.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Maybe it wouldn’t be enough, whatever he had. He wanted the world to know he was here. He wanted to shatter their own ignorance and sever their bonds together, in the tide of the growing war of the outside world. Buildings and people, left and right, were bathed in an inferno that lasted for days, the evidence of such disasters lasting for weeks on charred ground, marked by darkening skies. The cries of orphaned children. The wails of the suddenly widowed. The trembling lips of children who had lost their parents. The quivering limbs of the exhausted, and the frailty of those who have been starved.

_Such weak pests roaming the earth where they believe to reign their own tiny weapons, declaring **war**. _

Their efforts to be threats were laughable at best, and if he could, he would piss on them all, but then, they don’t even deserve the slightest bit of his attention. He would shed light on their weaknesses soon. He refused to live in the darkness, when only he could show the true world who truly stood at the top, to stop this treachery and the blind faith of the weak who depended on those who don’t even know the true enemies.   

But he was just missing one piece.

_Tom Riddle._

The name was unassuming—and mundane at best, and there would be no doubt that people would just read right past him because of how _ordinary_ his name lied on paper. But that was only if people just read his name, and not the rest of what he had achieved and what he was capable of. Talent and skill like _this_ —it was unimaginable. He could not let this slide right by him like before.

The afternoon was stilted, empty and quiet, and his disposition was calm, but in the inside he was ready— _waiting_. He already had what he wanted in his hands, but he needed someone who could fight under his behest, with the same conviction and fervour, and _strength_. This was not a power move, oh no, but a simple precautionary measure just before he boiled over the pot and stirred its contents.

“Sire? May I come in?” A woman spoke, her voice a knife through his simmering thoughts. Her outline stood beyond the flap of the tent, rigid but patient. He turned away from her peering shadow.

“Come—and I’ve already told you, Willow, you needn’t call me _Sire._ Such formalities bore me after years of acting out to other scoundrels and men-turned monsters. It’s a sickening thing,” he reminded her, gracing her a minuscule smile, before wiping it off of his face and staring straight into her muddy brown eyes, his own nearly eager and giddy.

Willow bowed dutifully at his words, back stiff—but her head— _persistent_. “I apologise for the way I address you, Sire, but I believe respect can be shown through proper etiquette, you see. But I have come to deliver you other news.”

His hand twitched at what she had said, but he pushed away the urge to discipline her because of her hardheadedness. These days, loyal and persistent people were hard to come by. And it was all the more reason to have Tom Riddle under his army.

He raised his brows as Willow peered upwards from her bow, her eyes lined with steel and knowledge that he had once seen on a forgotten face. He trembled at the semblance, a range of emotions flickering through his empty chest, before he settled a wicked grin on his face, a smirk donned on his thin lips. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees as he sat on his makeshift desk, magic tingling his hands excitedly. He was hungering for something—news that he had been long waiting for.

“Oh?” He chuckled, mock curiosity flowing like ribbon in his voice, a smirk painting his thin lips. “Please, do tell!”

Willow revealed a half smile, before answering, “He’s on the move, and he seems interested in someone.”

He sat up from his sitting position, tapping his chin lightly. He looked into her eyes again. “Who?”

“Hermione Celare.”

“Do you perhaps know _why_ he is interested in her?” He rose from his desk and went to the shelves of books and records in the corner of the large tent.

Willow shook her head in negation. He didn’t mind her lack of answer.

In front of the shelf, the tips of his gloved hands grazed the spines of old books and parchment paper, mapping out his search in a continuous trail, before his powdery blue eyes met what he had been searching for.  Through the area of the bookshelf, of records and names of Hogwarts students and magical children within Britain, of course, not legally taken under his possession, he took out what he needed. His eyes searched fast for the list of magical children in the whole of Britain, searching “ _Hermione Celare_ ” fast out of experience and finding something strange. The magical list would show the names, the blood statuses, and birth date of each individual child within Britain in order to establish the record of the children’s existence. He had created a copy out of the original, and made it function like the original, and it could not be tampered with. Not unless someone wanted to die because of the dark curses he had put in its place.

And something was strange when he saw her name.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that bit, Willow. I believe _Circe_ just gave me the answer.” He turned around, and handed the paper to Willow gently, the action in itself telling of how important the information was to him. Inside of him, excitement trembled like a quivering bow, strings pulled taut and ready to snap. Knowledge so ravenous circulating his suddenly brimming thoughts, he breathed deeply to settle his sudden excitement and his overflowing power, quivering through the air.

Willow’s eyes zeroed in on the girl’s name, and she froze.

“Hermione Celare....Blood status: _Muggle born_.... _Birth date_ —!” Willow peered up into his face, and she found a hunger in his gaze, a deep longing mixed with curiosity and anticipation, and _thirst_. She had seen this on his face before, mixed with sweat and grime, and blood, ready to pluck lives out as fast as they had been granted just for his cause. When he had told his men to paint those marks on the walls, reminiscent of the symbol of what they had been looking for, after he had dealt with those weaklings, personally. Those _insects_ that needn’t the protection that they have now.

It was the same, and Willow would follow him to the end to make his dream come true— _her dream._

Despite his cruelty, ruthlessness, and even the amount of cryptic messages he left her, out of the wisdom of his past experiences.

They both began to organise a plan, because of one strange tid-bit of information.

_Birth date: September 19, 1979._

Hermione Celare was a time-traveller. And it wouldn’t be long until he had her knowledge in his hands—before the rest of the world could.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “It’s a miracle that the Daily Prophet does not know of her existence yet, Albus,” Headmaster Dippet coughed, a sickly look entering his eyes akin to that of worry. He sat heavily in his chair behind the desk, looking over his office that didn’t really have much to show, reflecting the bareness of his character, though empty and plain was not the words to describe Dippet. He looked to the side to see Albus in his colourful robes once more, and Dippet lamented the day Albus would see a change of style fit.

Which would be _never_.

“But that is all thanks to the Wizengamot, who has kept her existence under tight wraps after finding out of her appearance—but they wish to see her.” He explained, knowing that Albus was a source of wisdom—and _mystery_. He had told Albus of the situation, wanting to seek advice under the pressure of the Ministry, to see the child and confirm the credibility of her existence and her story. But he had promised— _he promised_ to protect the child, and he believed that publicity was out of the question, though he couldn't exactly say no to the Ministry.

Dippet knew he was no Albus, or Merlin—or wasn’t really a powerful legacy that developed magical properties from difficult potions, or revolutionised the history of magic. He only held what power he could in his hands ( _blood and connections could only get you so far_ ), but Albus—Albus was an ally he had on his side—a bishop perhaps with wide moves. But despite that advantage, Dippet was the unfortunate King to have been dealt with a powerful chess piece who had his own sense of moral compass and had a mind to move on his own accord. Not to mention his cryptic messages that he loved to drop every now and then. Albus was a frustrating fellow who loved to take over the plans of others, always kept them in the dark and had his own notions of good and evil, where he perceived his own actions to be just and great, that it never really mattered to him what he would sacrifice, which was at the expense of others. He was good to a fault. He always took up large tasks and responsibilities, never even aware of his own weaknesses, falling too overconfident because of his accomplishments and his blind notions.

“Those who have a fear of the unknown always wish to see what lies ahead, dear friend. And if a small flame is exposed to oil, then it only creates disaster,” Albus told him serenely, eyes uncaring and his emotions lying miles upon miles away from his mask. Dippet sighed at how vague his friend’s insight seemed to sound, though he understood.

But, despite how Dippet understood, it would never change the fact that Albus would always be an eccentric man. A man burdened by something he could not see.

“Yes, I know, dear friend. If ever the entirety of magical Britain knew, then surely a disaster would happen. Power is everything to others in these stages of time. To cause unease in an already crumbling society, dark forces would come out to take what would give them a sliver of an advantage. Like, perhaps, Grindelwald.” Dippet spoke, holding no foreboding thought of the name which Albus Dumbledore had both come to despise and love. Dippet knew little of the past between Albus and Gellert, but perhaps, in that blundering mind of his, not knowing was an envious state to be in. A weak mind that knew nothing was better than a weak mind that knew all.

Dippet’s eyes flitted to Albus as his spindly fingers intertwined in a trembling lock. On his shoulders, burden lay heavy, but Dippet knew pressure. Only, this time, pressure was coming on all sides. Relaying to Albus Dumbledore his worries was only a pass time of his which had only come to grow now, as the looming threat of war and tyranny began to peak over the horizon of the British Magical world. No matter how much of a cryptic mind Albus was, no matter how broken or too fortified he may be, he was an ally all the same.

_Just an ally._

Albus’ disposition had grimmed at the mention of Gellert Grindelwald. He fully leaned back in his seat, but Dippet saw, the set jaw of his fellow friend, felt his humming magic sinking down into the pores of his flesh, and his breath escaping the slightest sliver of thin air in his wide office—wide and empty enough to notice the smallest of things.

Empty and plain was not the words used to describe Dippet. The silent and invisible ones were those who lay observant and vigilant— _the silent witnesses._ Dippet had not been a Slytherin in the past just to notice nothing of his own friend and ally. A shame it would be to his name. His room was bare and plain, yes, but it would make things more noticeable.

That is the art of those who lay unseen.

“Yes, Grindelwald,” Albus hummed, appearing calm and languid. In the inside, he was anything but. Though despite his internal conflicts, the man continued, “He _is_ a looming threat upon our society. And I am afraid, my friend, of what the war Grindelwald is waging will boil down to.” Albus suddenly confessed, and Dippet gave him a slightly concerned gaze, leaning forward in his seat, readjusting his rump that was growing numb.

“Why so?”

 Albus Dumbledore’s eyes flickered to his, and a sudden exhaustion weighed down his being, like bones crumbling to dust; the grating hinges of a window refusing to move another inch as it is being forced open. His words were like autumn leaves, dry and exhausted as it swayed to the dance of the flowing wind bringing him towards somewhere. Or _nowhere_. He might never know himself.

“I am being pulled taught, like the string of a bow, Armando. But snapping my shaky spine is not an option. I must pull what pressure I can and fuse it into my strength, for Magical Security needs me—to secure our safety. My reputation seems to precede me far more than it should.” Albus grinned, popping a lemon drop out of nowhere into his mouth. But that man’s words were full of humility, dampened enough by exhaustion, and his words nothing but a parting farewell. The lemon drop though?— _eh_.

Yes, Dippet was aware that the Ministry was needing more and more of Albus’ help, due to the infiltration of Grindelwald and the horrid attacks on both muggles and wizards alike, going as far as to threat the secrecy of the magical world. Tensions were beginning to thicken little by little as chaos began to grow in number. The students were growing restless, staff beginning to fear for what was to come, as the Daily Prophet dispensed more and more articles revealing the face of a cruel man and his wicked deeds. And Albus was being thrown into the thick of things to solve what the Department of Magical Security could not. He was the only strong wizard who could stand against Grindelwald, and Dippet could admit, there was something shady to the connection between the oppositions, but he could not question that now when it was beginning to become more and more clear that only Dumbledore could stand against the man.

But Dippet could not do anything to alleviate Albus’ own worries, when he knew nothing of such. So he remained silent, observing still, in that blank room of his.

“I will do my best to keep the Ministry away from Hermione, Armando. The child suffers more than she should already,” Albus told Dippet with a gaze full of resolute determination and kindness. Dippet did not know why Albus was as dedicated as he to protecting the time traveller. But Dippet, nonetheless, appreciated the gesture anyways. He knew he was powerless against the Ministry, unlike Albus (though Albus wasn’t quite infallible, but he was near to being so). So Dippet took what he could.

“Yes, please do so, if it is not anymore trouble for you. But do not spread yourself too thin, my friend. We still need you,” Dippet said to Albus, sighing into his last words. Those very same words were what Dippet feared, though, because he feared he depended too much on Albus, but he could not also control such dependency. And as for Albus, he took the trust and responsibility that Dippet entrusted within him, and he made it into strength. He knew that Dippet tended to depend on him a lot, but so did other people.

“See  you later, Armando.” And Albus took those people’s worry in stride anyway, as he left the room, transfiguring one of Dippet’s trinkets into a bowl of lemon drops, not even hiding his mischievous grin.

Dippet did nothing but sigh into his palm.


End file.
